


shine a light (on my broken parts)

by Handy_Peanut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Harry Potter, Child Abuse, Do-Over, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentor Severus Snape, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slytherin Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handy_Peanut/pseuds/Handy_Peanut
Summary: Harry Potter was looking forward to a world without Voldemort in it; or at least a world with a chance of defeating him, but when he's unceremoniously thrown back in time by forces beyond his understanding, he's sure as hell not going to let this second chance go to waste.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Blaise Zabini, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson & Harry Potter, Theodore Nott & Harry Potter
Comments: 133
Kudos: 595





	1. new beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Greatest Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087428) by [shadowscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowscribe/pseuds/shadowscribe). 



> the author sincerely regrets all life choices that led to this moment. the author should really be working on their other wip. the author doesn't give a shit. 
> 
> hope you enjoy. leave a comment and a kudos because i eat them like a dementor.

Someone was screaming. 

Was he screaming?

No, Hagrid was screaming. Hagrid was screaming for _him_. No, Hagrid was _crying_ for him. 

“Hagrid, don’t cry, this is my time. This is the close. I understand now,” he tried to say, but couldn’t. 

The last thing that Harry James Potter did before he died was smile.

He could rest now. 

* * *

Everything was white. 

He thought of the piercing white that came from freshly fallen snow, the soft light that had adorned the walls of Shell Cottage, and the yellow, artificial light that shone from the ceiling in the Hospital Wing. 

It was all of these things, yet none of these things. 

The walls were white too; and they were oddly familiar, like a scene from a dream he could barely remember. 

For there _were_ walls; there was no difference in coloring, nor in texture, but he could _tell_ , the same way he knew that the sky was blue, and the grass was green. 

He bit back a chuckle, because recently, the sky was never blue, and the grass was an ugly shade of brown. 

He looked at his hands, remarking absently that they were free from the little scars that came from cooking greasy things too young, and messing up a spell or a potion one too many times. When he reached up to his face to push up his glasses, he found that they weren’t there either. 

_Was he dead?_

The last thing that Harry remembered was a blinding flash of green, then a sense of peace; as if something wrong had exited his body for good. Although, he supposed that a piece of someone else’s soul would definitely feel wrong in his body. 

Why wasn’t he freaking out more about being dead? 

“That, my boy, is probably because you aren’t.” 

He answered before he thought, “Dead? Voldemort killed me, right?” Just as he finished speaking, he whipped around, flinching back almost violently because _that voice couldn’t possibly exist, because the person that owned it was dead, he was_ sure _of it_. “Professor Dumbledore?” 

Dumbledore stared back at him, beaming as he stretched his arms out, beckoning Harry closer. His face was wrinkled, but it was missing the tension that had plagued it for years now, making him seem younger than Harry had ever seen him. He was wearing white robes that matched his hair and beard, as well as the walls and the floors and everything here; wherever here was. “Harry, Harry, Harry, how I’ve missed you.” 

Harry rushed over, jaw slack, eyes wide. He swallowed. Once. Twice. “Professor?” His voice cracked, and he winced internally. 

“You brave, brave boy. You wonderful boy. Walk with me.” Dumbledore put his arms around Harry’s shoulders as they strolled across the endless stretch of white. Harry noticed that Dumbledore was speaking, but his words went in through one ear, and out the other, and he found himself answering questions blearily without fully processing what he was saying. His thoughts were spiralling and jumping from moment to moment, because _holy shit, was he dead?_ and, _he hoped his friends were okay_. 

He was torn out of his thoughts when a sharp cry sounded, reminding him of the way Dudley used to sob when he didn’t get his way. The way _he_ used to sob when he was locked in his cupboard without food for days on end.

He spun around, reaching for a wand that was conspicuously absent, before jumping back so quickly that he almost backed into Dumbledore. 

It was a baby.

An ugly one, sure, but a baby nonetheless. 

“You cannot help.” Harry’s gut response was one of anger. Who was _he_ to leave this child alone without a passing glance, who was _he_ to make this baby suffer for longer than they had to? His second, was one of revulsion. Was this baby-

“Is that… Is that Voldemort?” He could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and he berated himself. No child, not even Voldemort deserved to be left, _discarded_ without a home. Without a family. 

“Yes. I’m afraid that it is.” Dumbledore patted his shoulder, leading him away from the child as it wailed. Screamed.

Dumbledore was speaking, but Harry didn't want to listen to him anymore; he was filled with too many contradictory emotions.

He almost startled when he realized that he was _mourning_. Grieving for all the things that he wouldn't be able to do, the people he'd left behind, and the people he'd failed in his absence.

Mourning all of the lost time with the people he loved above all else.

He thought back to his time in the cupboard, and he wondered what it'd be like if he were _just Harry_. Just Harry, who didn't need to worry about Dark Lords and prophecies; a Harry who could devote his life to things that he cared about. A Harry who wasn't suffocating under the weight of everyone's expectations, and a Harry who would never take his _time_ for granted again.

Several minutes passed, and Harry blinked rapidly before tuning back into the conversation. 

“You could always choose to go back.” What? “Tom has always been a good dueler. And technically, you _are_ the Master of Death. You could be a big help. You could _live_ , Harry. Live with those that you love.” Harry felt his eyes watering, and his chest tightened. 

He frowned, thinking about all of the people he’d lost; the babies who would grow up orphans, just like him. He thought about the baby; his screams winding down to whimpers by now. He thought about the title ‘Master of Death,’ and all that it entailed.

He couldn't save everyone; not the ones that were already dead, the ones who would forever feel the loss of their siblings, their parents, their partners, and all the things they could have done with more _time_. 

He could have more time. If he wanted it. 

“I want to live. _I want to live_. No, I want _everyone_ to live.” 

And the world around him faded away, the last part to blink away being the sharp, _proud_ twinkle of Dumbledore’s eyes. 

He opened his eyes to a large, hairy spider sitting on his face, and the inside of a cupboard underneath the stairs of Number Four Privet Drive. 

* * *

“What?” His voice was shrill and hoarse, and he winced at the way it cracked. He’d spoken louder than he’d meant to, and he found himself inching towards the back of the cupboard like he used to do when he was younger; his self-preservation instincts had lessened significantly over time by living with Gryffindors for almost seven years. He surveilled the area, not finding anything out of the ordinary, before he looked down at himself in shock. 

He was… young. 

If he had to provide an estimate, he thought that he would put himself at around nine or older; he’d always been small for his age. 

His clothes were worn and baggy, and he rolled up his sleeves as high as they could go while slapping spiders off his body, thinking absently that Ron would go _mental_ if he ever heard about this. 

“The fuck is going on?” Harry whispered to himself, reaching for a wand that wasn’t there, and chiding himself for making that mistake a second time in the last few minutes. 

Did he go back in time? Was all of Hogwarts an elaborate dream he’d cooked up? He shivered at the thought, and all of the spiders abruptly scuttled away from him. 

No, he couldn’t have imagined Hogwarts and _magic_ if he’d been with the Dementors for several bloody lifetimes. 

Was this a hallucination then? 

He pinched himself, almost gasping in pain when he squeezed at what must have been a burn from bacon grease, (and he remembered his friends’ concern when they found out that he could self-diagnose nearly perfectly every time he woke in the hospital wing, or got into a duel of some sort) almost jumping out of his skin as splinters of wood fell from the ceiling as Dudley jumped on the stairs, pounding on the area right above ~~his~~ _the_ cupboard. 

“Wake up cousin, we’re going to the zoo!” Dudley screeched, stomping on the stairs once more for good measure.

Harry grabbed his glasses, shoving them on his face before rolling off the mattress and opening the cupboard door, only to have it slam back on him, shifting the tape on his glasses to the point where he had to unwind and redo it to have them stay on his face. 

He knew today. 

He knew it like the back of his hand, or the inside of his pocket, or whatever rubbish Hermione came up with next to ‘familiarize Harry to the idioms of other cultures,’ and to accommodate for Krum during the short time that they dated. 

Today was the day they went to the zoo. Today was Dudley’s birthday, and today was the day he talked to a fucking snake for the first time. 

He was going mental, wasn’t he. 

Or he was dead, and that cryptic Dumbledore limbo afterlife thing was completely and utterly bullshit, and he was in hell; a hell where he didn’t have magic and he lived with the Dursleys. 

(He thought that now, with his newfound knowledge of the Patronus, his boggart might be just that.)

“Boy, get up! You will do _nothing_ to ruin _our Dudder's_ special day!” Aunt Petunia was the one shouting this time, and he almost snorted at the resemblance between Dudley’s tantrums, and what Petunia said on a daily basis. 

  
He probably shouldn’t be so casual about this mess; but he supposed that the amount of craziness that occurred around and to him had tempered his reactions so that anything behind ‘your death is instrumental to your parents’ murderer’s downfall,’ and ‘your pseudo grandfather knew about it all along,’ (was that bitterness creeping into his thoughts?) seemed rather tame in comparison. 

Vernon reached into the cupboard, and before he could do anything, tugged him out by the hair as he kicked out on reflex. Clearly, his muscles had not undergone a magical transformation, (ha, _magical_ ) and his protests were weak and pathetic. 

_Pathetic_.

He thought that after he discovered that he was a wizard, that he would never be helpless again; it was something he’d promised himself when he’d gotten himself away from Privet Drive. But now, here he was, weak again. 

“Cook breakfast!” Vernon’s voice was filled with vitriol, and Harry turned his face away just in time to avoid the spit that flew his way. 

_He would never be weak again_. 

“Fuck this. You know what? Fuck this.” He twisted himself out from under Vernon, using a combination of his skinniness, and his impromptu hand-to-hand combat training from Ron and Ginny to squirm away, stepping away towards the door.

“Boy! What are you doing? Boy!” 

Harry let out a snarl that was half feral, and grinned when Vernon seemed cowed. “This might be a dream, or a nightmare, or something else entirely, but I can’t take this anymore, and I won’t take this anymore.” By now, Dudley and Petunia had come over, all of them glaring. 

“What are you-” 

Harry turned, grabbing Petunia’s purse from its hook near the front door, and he waltzed out the front door before breaking into a dead sprint. 

* * *

He only realized how _utterly stupid_ his plans were when he’d already run a kilometer or so from the neighborhood and was halfway to the bus station.

(Maybe Snape’s dislike of Gryffindors was a _tiny_ bit justified? Only a tiny bit though.) 

(Maybe Hermione’s love of planning held merit too; but he certainly wasn’t going to admit to _that_ in front of her.) 

He had around fifty pounds from the purse, and he’d ditched anything recognizable as soon as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. He was probably damaging the timeline irrevocably, but this clearly didn’t work like the Time Turners did, and hey; he was the Master of Death (was he?); he should be able to make some alterations here and there, right? 

He took a deep breath in, sitting on a park bench in clear view of the bus station, and he planned. 

He was hungry; likely, the event at the zoo had been precluded by a few days in the cupboard without food, and he allocated twenty pounds for food in his budget. Three or so pounds would get him to the Leaky Cauldron, and from there, if he disguised himself well, he could get to Gringotts without much difficulty. 

Now, for a disguise. 

He could try using hair dye or something, but his real issue was the scar. With that thing in plain sight, he would be swarmed. 

He frowned. There were spells that could grow out hair, but he didn’t have a wand yet. 

_But why would a wand be needed_? It was just a channel for their own, magical strength, otherwise the muggles would be able to use magic too. 

What about controlled accidental magic? 

He frowned again, thinking about all the times he’d done something; turned a teacher’s hair bright blue, unlocked the door to his the cupboard to get water and food; he thought about the _feeling_ he got when he was performing a spell; a pull on the energy pulsing inside him that gravitated to his wand; and he gasped in pleasure when he felt a tug on his scalp, and saw hair growing down to his shoulders. (He’d been aiming for the chin, but hey - close enough!) 

He smiled, grinning in delight as he realized his hair was curlier than he thought it was going to be, and that that curliness covered up his scar perfectly. 

It seemed so silly to be delighted at little things like this, but he’d promised himself that he was going to _live_ , didn’t he? 

Harry wondered when he’d accepted his little jump to the past, but paid it no mind. If this was his second chance, he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it. 

He bought a sandwich, as well as a notebook from a little shop around the corner, and he sat on the bench, planning as best as he could. He’d written down a comprehensive, if vague, timeline of events from now to his death, (and wasn’t that a bizarre thought to have) and he’d decided on several things. 

First, was that _no one he loved was going to die this time around_. 

It was selfish, sure, and inconvenient as hell. But he didn’t give a fuck. 

He remembered Sirius’ face when he fell through the veil; the happiness slipping off his face like water off a duck’s back; he remembered Fred’s cold, dead eyes; he remembered Lupin and Tonks and everyone else who’d died _because of him_. (He remembered the haunted eyes of Severus Snape, a man he hated and loved in equal measure, and he thought that perhaps he could save the people like _him_ too; the bitter ones, the brittle ones, the ones with hearts of glass and minds of steel who only ever wanted to do the right thing.) 

There would be no death this time. 

Second, was that he wasn’t going to _not_ change things in the hope that he could have more comprehensive knowledge of the future. He would rather have a solid foundation and no future knowledge over more foresight, and a plan that depended heavily on whether events remained the same or not. He didn’t know how anything he did on a daily basis; whether it be brushing his teeth a few minutes early, or going on a bus ride that he shouldn’t, would affect the timeline. The future was unpredictable, and he wouldn’t rely on his knowledge of it too heavily. 

Lastly, and most importantly, was this. 

He would be no one’s pawn. 

No one’s sacrifice, no one’s lamb, no one’s puppet to be jerked around like a spider under the Imperius. 

(Ah. He was bitter about Dumbledore after all.) 

(And the fact that the one to come to his ‘defence’ was _Snape_ … well.) 

He’d said that he would live and laugh and _love_ this time around, and that was precisely what he planned on doing. 

(He thought about a lost future where Ginny was, where Hermione was, where Ron was, where Luna and Neville and-)

He ripped his thoughts away from that; there was no point in ‘what-ifs,’ and he wouldn’t give up this chance to save _more_ , to help _more_ , unless he was dragged off kicking and biting and cursing and screaming bloody murder, and that was a promise. 

He finished his sandwich with a small smile, and put away his notebook. 

Off to Gringotts. 

* * *

It was a three hour bus ride, and Harry had bought three more sandwiches for the duration. 

(Yes, he hoarded food. No, he was not ashamed in the least, and he was fairly certain that if anyone had just returned from a year of living on scraps only to go back in time to _another_ time where they were being starved, they would do it too.) 

(It really sounded bad when he put it like that, didn’t it.) 

He made sure to pace himself while eating the second sandwich, and he wondered absently why no one was questioning the ten year old child that was sitting on a bus while very much alone and devouring a sandwich like it cost millions. 

Harry swung off the bus at his stop, tossing the plastic wrap of the sandwich into the nearest bin, and carefully clutching his remaining belongings. He didn’t realize that he was shaking until he came to a stop right in front of the Leaky Cauldron for the first time in forever. 

He swallowed, watching everyone around him stream around the door as if it weren’t there, and he grinned. _It was real_. It had to be real. 

He opened the door, rushing to the front desk while dodging the occupants. He cleared his throat, and Tom came over. “Excuse me, could you open the… uh, the _wall_ to Diagon Alley please?” 

Tom smiled. “Hogwarts?” Harry nodded. “Come along then.” 

* * *

It was beautiful.

He hadn’t noticed how much the empty, desolate streets of Diagon Alley had affected him the first time around until now; when it was lively and colourful and filled with life. Harry had stumbled forwards before he meant to, gaping at everything as he went by. He thought that he could hear Tom snickering behind him at his reaction before the gate slid back closed, and he grimaced.

His grimace didn’t last long. 

He walked towards Gringotts as if in a trance, checking his forehead to make sure that it was still covered almost constantly. Just _looking_ was enough to make him shake, and he hurried along to get away from all the _noise_. 

It felt like too much time, and not enough time when he made it to the bank at last, and he almost giggled because the last time he’d been here, he’d broken in and escaped on a _dragon_. And the fucking _dragon_ wasn’t even the most insane thing he'd done that _week_! 

He exhaled, steeling himself, before walking in, head up, eyes facing forwards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

He’d gotten significantly better at controlling his emotional outbursts - he’d _had_ to with the horcruxes around all the time (and was his anger in previous years because of that, or because of _him_?) and in turn, he’d gotten better at acting and Occluding. He drew on both of those skills now. 

Harry walked up to the front desk, and rang the bell. 

The goblin glanced over the giant stack of papers in front of them, rolled their eyes, and sighed. “Key?” 

“I’m afraid that I don’t have one; I was just wondering whether I had any open accounts. I was _told_ ," for a given definition of _told_ , "that I have one here.” 

The goblin grunted. “What is your name?” 

“Harry James Potter.” The goblin raised their eyebrows, and Harry pushed his hair aside to show them his scar.

“Hand.” Harry put out his hand hesitantly, and the goblin grabbed it, getting a knife and poking one of his fingers. He winced, but didn’t comment. The blood dripped onto a parchment of some sort, and he watched as it sunk into the page.

The goblin bared their teeth. “You are not under the effects of polyjuice, and there is nothing magical changing your appearance." The goblin looked almost disappointed. "Your vault numbers are 687, 804, and 372. Remember that. Follow me.” 

“Vault _numbers_?” 

“Yes.” He was led towards the cart, and he stepped inside hesitantly. “You have an account your parents reserved for higher education and savings, one for everyday expenses, and one for investments you might make for 687, 804, and 372 respectively.” Harry jolted as the cart started moving forward. “I am bringing you to 804.” The goblin gave him an ornate key. “This will work for all three. Don’t lose it. You only get one extra before you have to pay. I am discontinuing the use of any others.” 

Harry nodded, flabbergasted. 

The cart stopped, and Harry stepped out with the goblin, barely managing to keep his feet. “You have around 100,000 galleons currently reserved for higher education and savings, around 200,000 for everyday expenses, and around 250,000 in liquid assets in your investments account. You were around 800,000 galleons in debt, but that has been waived in gratitude for your part in defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." The goblin's surly expression showed exactly how he felt about _that_ , and Harry winced. "One gallon is 5.58 pounds, one sickle is 0.33 pounds, and one knut is 0.01 pounds.” 

Harry nodded dumbly. He was starting to feel like a bobblehead. 

“Interest rates on your savings account is 3%, and the things your parents have invested in net a significant return. We will notify you by owl for any changes you need to be aware of. Be prepared to present yourself here on your seventeenth birthday, or when you get yourself emancipated. Questions?” The goblin whirled on him, and he flinched.

“Uh… what’s your name?” The goblin glared. “If that’s not rude to ask, I mean.” 

“My name is Gornuk, Harry Potter.” 

“Are there any other vaults that I have access to? Any properties?” Gornuk grimaced. 

“Not many think to ask that, Mr. Potter. You are slightly more intelligent than you look. Unfortunately." Harry raised an eyebrow. “Your Godfather, Sirius Black was sentenced to life in Azkaban. He left everything to the Potters, and the Potters left everything to you. Through him, you have access to Vault 711, and Number 12 Grimmauld Place. That is the _only_ Black property you have access to, seeing as Mr. Black had been disinherited. Through the Potters, I’m fairly certain that all of their remaining properties were destroyed by You-Know-Who. Any other questions?” 

Harry frowned. He would visit Grimmauld Place soon, and Kreacher, but he would leave Vault 711 alone for when he cleared Sirius’ name.

So, what else did he need today?

It would be useful to have goblins on his side; they essentially controlled the wizarding economy, and they made artifacts that were lauded as the best in the world. 

“I was wondering whether there were any books you could recommend about learning goblin... customs, I guess. And learning gobbledegook. Are there any goblin made artifacts that I own that I need to give back to the makers? Or pay for, I mean.” He shrunk back at the look on Gornuk’s face, and he backtracked immediately. “Never mind, that was a stupid thing to ask-” 

Gornuk sighed, and Harry stopped talking. “There are books about our culture and our history in the bookshops in Diagon Alley. Find an author known as ‘Ragnok the Pigeon Toed.’ You have no goblin artifacts at this time that need to be paid for or returned." He paused. "Your mother made sure of that.”

His jaw dropped. “You knew my mother?”

Gornuk nodded. “I did. She was a lovely witch.” That was extraordinarily high praise from a goblin. It appeared as if that was all Gornuk was going to say, and Harry went to put his key into the slot when he was interrupted. “I think you take after her.” 

Harry stood up straighter, looking Gornuk in the eyes. “She is a wonderful woman to take after. But I don’t want people to see her when they look at me.” 

He might have imagined it, but he thought that Gornuk looked pleased at that statement. “Good. Let’s talk about gold.” 

* * *

By the end of the trip, he had bought a bag that summoned any money that he needed if he asked for it and couldn’t be used by anyone but himself, he had a shiny new key to use for large withdrawals and other transactions, and he had another bag filled with muggle money. 

He waved goodbye at Gornuk, missing the amused expression on Gornuk’s face when he ran out into the street. 

He browsed around Diagon Alley for hours, and he purchased a suitcase with an undetectable extension charm, a featherlight charm, a separate compartment for books, a separate compartment for a _bed_ which… okay then, and several, powerful wards on it for theft insurance. He also bought a full set of clothing for daily use, special occasions, and some muggle clothing in case he needed it. He bought almost a hundred books about customs he’d ignored the first time around, wizarding law, goblin customs and law, wizarding money, Hogwarts, some things he found interesting or useful, and the entire curriculum overview for Hogwarts and muggle school. 

He ate at the Leaky Cauldron, and he rented out a room for a month. 

The only things missing were his school things, which he wouldn’t buy until he got his letter, his wand, and-

Well.

Hedwig. 

He wondered if she was at the Eeylops Owl Emporium right now. 

He wondered whether he had the nerve to _get_ Hedwig if she was there, because every time he thought of her now, he only saw a flash of green light and her cold, dead body on the ground of the motorcycle side-car. 

Harry was at the shop now, and the world seemed to blur around him. He took a deep breath in, and exhaled. He was a Gryffindor for fuck’s sake, and a _good_ one at that. He was brave, and he wouldn’t be cowed by a _bird_ of all things, when he’d been visiting shops long gone and seeing people long dead for the whole day now. 

He stepped into the shop, and was immediately overwhelmed with the chirps and caws from the owls there. He flinched back, but not before he saw the owl in the corner of the shop. The snowy owl. 

He was in and out of there in less than five minutes with a vault that was _slightly_ emptier, and an owl that he swore to never let down again. 

* * *

His last stop was for a wand. He missed his holly wand fiercely, he _craved_ it like a junkie might crave drugs, or an alcoholic might crave alcohol, because by now, his wand was part of him in every way that matter and when it snapped- 

He stood outside of Ollivanders, and was just about to walk inside when he caught a glimpse of the boy that seemed to be heading his way too. 

He was tall, skinny, and held himself with an air of poshness that was almost comical. He had blond hair that was slicked back neatly, and he was wearing robes so clean they looked new. 

Malfoy. 

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry’s mind tore through memories; being tormented by Malfoy, tormenting Malfoy, spying on Malfoy, seeing Malfoy _bleed out_ on the bathroom floor, watching Malfoy refuse to identify him, watching Malfoy reaching out in terror because Fiendfyre was about to _consume him-_

And his heart stuttered to a halt when Malfoy walked up to him, stuck his hand out, and _smiled_ more genuinely than Harry had ever seen before. “Hey. Are you getting your wand too?” 

Harry gulped, and nodded. “Yeah.” If his voice was strange or out of place, Malfoy didn’t comment. “Yeah, I am.” He shook Malfoy’s hand, and almost burst out laughing at the irony of it all. 

“Hogwarts?” Before Harry could say another word, Malfoy started talking again. “I’m going to Hogwarts. I’ve always wanted to learn _real_ magic. My father says that the headmaster is awful, but I don’t really care. I want to be in Slytherin because my whole family’s been there too, and I think I’m pretty cunning and ambitious. I’m going to be a healer and a politician when I’m older. Or an Auror, I haven’t decided. What about you? What's your blood status?” 

Harry stared at him blankly, and Malfoy winced. “My name is Draco. Malfoy. Call me Draco. You’ve probably heard of my father before. He’s big in the Ministry.” 

Maybe he could save Malfoy too.

And his decision was made. 

“I’m Harry Potter. Did you want to be friends?” 

* * *

Touching his wand again felt like coming home.

* * *

The trip to Ollivanders went much like it did previously, with one notable difference. 

Draco.

He was talking to Draco.

He was _enjoying_ talking to Draco, and that seemed so viscerally wrong that he’d had to take a breather every once in a while to process it.

He’d promised to keep in touch after they’d gotten their wands and Draco was to meet back up with his parents, and once again, Harry felt a little bit lighter. 

He had made amends with someone, possibly prevented someone from falling into Voldemort’s grasp, and he’d fostered connections for the future. 

He ignored the fact that he was talking a bit like Slughorn, and moved on, going back to his room and setting his things down.

He spent the rest of the night reading the things he’d bought, starting with curriculum stuff, as not to accidentally say something about a spell he’d learned in sixth year, and he lost himself in the magic of it all, not noticing the time until it was almost breakfast and he couldn’t sleep without missing _food_ , which he would never take for granted, _ever_. 

He found the muggle curriculum more interesting than he thought it would be, and he found himself thinking about the things he might have learned if he wasn’t a wizard in the muggle world, as well as wishing fervently that he’d thought to take Arithmancy and Spell Creating and _Runes_ the first time around instead of searching for the easy O. 

Everything was fascinating, and by the end of the first few weeks, he’d already read ahead to some of the muggle and magical higher education books he’d bought, as well as most of the political books he’d bought. 

He made sure to keep an eye on how much he was spending on a daily basis, because he didn’t want to go bankrupt before he could defeat Voldemort, and he lived in relative peace, exchanging letters with Draco when he had the time. 

He practiced wandless magic as much as he could; he didn’t know if the trace was on his wand as of yet, and he didn’t want to take any chances; and he found that he could perform most first year spells without a wand, and half of that without speaking, although both those things left him extremely tired out. It appeared as if he had to build up his ‘magic stamina’ again over time, (or maybe it just needed to go through puberty) which was annoying as hell, but he’d still be pretty far ahead of everyone else. He fixed his glasses too, which was nice. 

The wizarding world was brilliant, and he hadn’t appreciated how truly brilliant it was his first go at it because he was too preoccupied with other things, like when his next meal was going to be, when the next round of Harry Hunting was to begin, and _homework_. Oh, also ‘not being killed by various adults way beyond his skill level.’ 

By the time his birthday rolled around, he was feeling prepared for whatever life could throw at him. He had made a plan for what he was going to do at Hogwarts (enjoy life and avoid Quirrell) and most of his affairs were sorted. 

He’d sent back the owl for Hogwarts with his acceptance (this time, it was addressed to ‘the cabinet by the bench’ which he liked a lot less than ‘the cupboard under the stairs’ because it was less catchy) and he bought everything he needed for the school year that he didn’t have already. 

By the time _September_ came, he was practically dying of anticipation, and so was Draco. They agreed to meet on the train, and Harry was so nervous that he stayed up for three nights beforehand, crashed and slept for a day straight, then drank so much coffee that he vibrated when he stayed still for more than a minute.

He walked towards the platform, rubbing his hands together and clutching at his trolley so hard he thought that his bones might break. His breathing was fast and he was sweating because _he_ ' _d just fucking remembered_ -

The Weasleys would be here today. 

They would be here, and he would have to look them in the eyes and know that they were strangers to him; had never laughed with him on the good days, cried with him on the bad ones, had never loved him or given him his first real family. But they’d also never suffered the losses they did in the war. 

He held his wand like a lifeline, and he strolled towards Platforms Nine and Ten and-

“ _George_!” 

“It’s _Fred_. Goodness, woman, how can you call yourself our mother?” 

Harry closed his eyes. 

Breathed.

Opened them again. 

“Erm, excuse me, Ma’am, I was just wondering,” his voice trailed off, “it’s going to sound _mad_ , but do you know where Platform 9 ¾ is?” He made sure to pitch his voice a bit higher than it normally was, and he tried not to look Molly Weasley in the eyes, because if he did, he would surely blurt out everything he’d ever tried to hide from her and that simply wouldn’t do. No matter how much Harry loved her, she would tell Dumbledore, (if she believed him, that was) and Dumbledore would want to know _everything_ and do everything and his life wouldn’t be his own anymore; merely a tool to save the world for the ‘Greater Good.’ 

“Oh, dear. First year at Hogwarts?” He nodded. “It’s the same for my boy, Ronald. Now, all you have to do is run, run as fast as you can towards the brick wall in between Platforms Nine and Ten. Close your eyes first, and you’ll be there in no time at all.” 

“Okay.” 

He ran through the wall, ran to _the future_ , and it felt like he was flying. 

* * *

Harry found a spot on the train with a few minutes to spare; he’d been preoccupied with seeing… well. Everyone.

Everyone alive and well and happy. 

It was going to stay that way. 

He peeled open his trunk, and, closing the door with a quick spell (because he could _do that now_ , he was on his way to _Hogwarts_ ) and he changed into the school robes, taking out his money bag thing from Gringotts and his book about Occlumency with him. 

On second thought…

He brought out a copy of ‘Hogwarts: A History.’ 

He unlocked the door again, and started to read before dropping the book in fright as someone stormed in, making the door creak. He picked his book up, looked up, then dropped the book again. 

“Hey. Is anyone else sitting here? They fill up so quickly.” 

Ron. 

Weasley. 

_Ron._

_Weasley._

Memories _swarmed_ him like a group of angry Nifflers, (he wondered what Nifflers looked like when they were angry) and he fought them back ferociously, pushing them to the back of his mind. Yay, Occlumency! Bad Snape! 

“Nope. Just me.” His stutter was almost as bad as _Quirrelmort_ , and that was saying something. 

Ron slid into the seat across from him, and grinned conspiratorially. “I heard that the Boy Who Lived is on the train today! Isn’t that cool?” 

Harry’s thoughts shut down, and he swore that he heard the Windows shutdown noise somewhere in the distance.

Not _his_ Ron. This wasn’t the Ron that had known him for _years_ now; this was the Ron that yearned with the passion of a thousand burning suns to be _better_ than his family, because if he was a Weasley… 

He half-remembered the Sorting Hat sitting on Ron’s head shouting Gryffindor without a moment of hesitation, half-remembered what Draco, a _different_ Draco said about their family. ‘ _Red hair and a hand-me-down robe, you must be a Weasley_.’ 

(He remembered the pain of Ron turning his back on him because of jealousy; leaving him and Hermione to work on the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament alone because _he must have done it on purpose,_ _he was the Boy Who Lived_!) 

(He thought that ‘the Boy Who Refused To Die Because Luck And His Mother And Also He Was Too Stubborn To Die’ would be a significantly better moniker, but branding is forever, and now he was stuck with this crap.)

What would Ron become this time around?

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard that too.” He barely managed not to choke on his words. 

Just then, the compartment door slid open, and Draco came in, looking to him as if he’d spent three days slicking his hair back perfectly, then messing it up in the last three minutes. _Then_ , he’d thought that it was a pretentious thing that rich people did, but now, Harry thought that he was just nervous; and when you were nervous, you did stupid things while trying to make a good first impression. 

“Harry! I’ve been looking for you all over. Come join us in our compartment.”

Draco dragged him out of his seat, bringing his luggage with him, and Harry walked away from his first real friend to stay with his first real enemy, pretending that he didn’t know why his chest ached and his heart burned. 

* * *

Before he knew it, he was in another compartment already filled with children.

Draco beamed at him, and he smiled too, taking his suitcase and putting it on the rack. “Everyone, this is Harry Potter. Harry Potter, this is Pansy Parkinson, Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Blaise Zabini.” 

He slid into the seat closest to the exit, and across from Draco. “Pleased to meet you all.” 

Pansy gaped. “Draco, is that _Harry Potter_ you brought in here?” 

Harry groaned. “Please don’t start that. I went into a bloody store a few days ago, and people started _bowing_.” A slight exaggeration from his past life, (past life?) but still _technically_ true. “For something I don’t even _remember_. It’s annoying.” 

Blaise snorted. “I imagine that it would be.” 

Theo, who was sitting next to Harry, smirked. “You would know. Everyone you meet is infatuated with your mother.” 

“Hey!” 

Everyone laughed, and Harry found himself grinning too. How could he have ever thought that these people were evil? 

Pansy looked at Harry, then sighed, reaching her hand towards him, shaking it. “I didn’t mean to fawn over you. I just wondered why the hell you were sitting with Draco. He’s a prat.” 

Draco blushed furiously, and slapped a hand over Pansy’s mouth. “I’m not a prat!” 

“Are too!” said Daphne. 

Harry frowned. “He really isn’t a prat, he’s really nice, and-” 

Theo raised his eyebrows judgmentally, (and how he could do _that_ was a mystery) and punched him in the shoulder. Harry didn’t manage to stop his flinch, but he didn’t think that the others noticed. “Harry Potter is a Hufflepuff?” 

Harry frowned, more forcefully this time. “What’s wrong with Hufflepuff? It’s a perfectly good house to be in.” 

Draco patted him on the shoulder. “They’re just joking, don’t worry about it. Daphne’s sister is probably going to be a Hufflepuff, and I _am_ a prat.” Blaise snickered. “Shut up, Bee.” 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“What, Bee?” 

Harry’s features softened, and he sat there for a moment, not saying anything, soaking up the happiness in the area. He wondered whether Dementors felt like this when they were sucking up other people’s happiness. 

The train had started moving, and before he knew it, he was laughing and joking around with the other occupants like he’d known them for years.

Technically, he _had_ known them for years, and he wished that he’d been less of an idiot. Hermione would have gotten on wonderfully with Draco and Daphne, and Ron would have loved Blaise and Pansy. Neville would have liked all of them, but especially Theo for his knowledge in Herbology, and Luna might have liked Daphne too. 

Hey, where were Crabbe and Goyle? 

As if on cue, Daphne asked the same question. “Where are Crabbe and Goyle?” 

Draco sighed. “We don’t get on too well anymore.” _Really?_ “I mostly only talk to them now because our parents are good friends.” _Good Death Eater buddies_ , _more like_. He cursed himself for the comment as soon as he thought it. The world wasn’t divided into good people and Death Eaters, and they weren’t their parents. 

Hell, he didn’t know if their _parents_ were truly awful people right now either. 

There was a knock on the door, and it slid open, Hermione and Neville standing in the doorway. “Have any of you seen a toad by any chance? Neville has lost his. The toad’s name is Trevor.” 

Harry almost dove headfirst into a panic attack. _Hermione and Neville_. 

Not dead. 

Not the same people either. 

He felt the sudden, irrational urge to hug them. 

Daphne shook her head, as did the rest of their compartment. They went to leave, but Harry stopped them. “Wait a second.” 

He stood. 

They stopped. 

“Accio Trevor the toad.” He’d seen pictures of Trevor before, so this shouldn’t be too hard. After around 30 seconds of waiting, a toad flew down the hall and into his waiting hand. He handed the toad to Neville, and sat back down. 

He looked at his ~~friends~~ fellow passengers. They were staring. 

“What?” 

“You-” Hermione sputtered. “That was a fourth year spell!” 

Oh. Yeah. That. 

Shit. 

“I read ahead?” It came out like a question, and Blaise clapped him on the back. 

“Was that your first time doing it?” Blaise asked.

“...yes?” 

Blaise threw his hands in the air, before burying his face in his palms. “What the fuck?” 

“Language!” said Hermione, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it. 

“Well, I guess I know who’s going to be at the top of the class this year for Charms.” Draco groaned dramatically, bashing his head against the wall. 

Hermione recovered in a manner of seconds, and started slinging question after question about the Summoning Spell at him; most of which were answered by Daphne, and Neville looked slightly terrified before Blaise started talking to him, and Harry’s eyes stung slightly. 

This wasn’t making friends by troll, and Ron was absent, but it was close enough. 

He yawned. “Why am I so tired? I had so much coffee!”

Draco whipped his head around, facepalming. “You performed a fourth year summoning spell, and you’re wondering why you’re _tired_?”

That kickstarted a whole other debate about how much magic a given person possessed, and the logistics of storing magical energy in ones body. 

To Harry’s surprise, _Neville_ was the one talking most about this; clearly this was something that he was passionate about. 

Huh. This-

This was nice.

(He could get used to this.)

_Hogwarts, here we come_. 


	2. sortings and snape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so proud of myself; i wrote almost 5000 words in a day to give y'all this chapter. 
> 
> feed me with kudos and comments.

The journey to the Great Hall was… interesting, to say the least. 

They spent most of the time over debating about which houses they’d be sorted into, concluding that all of them would do rather well in any of the houses; although Neville and Hermione vehemently opposed Slytherin at first before Pansy set them straight, and Draco refused to accept anything _but_ Slytherin. Harry spent most of the ride ogling at his surroundings, and the _children_ accompanying him. They were all so _young_ ; painfully so, and he couldn’t help but imagine them all dead at Voldemort’s hands; eyes glazed over, life extinguished. 

He shuddered. 

He was filled with a strange sort of excitement coupled with dread and anxiety, but his worries slipped away like water off of a dragon’s back, making way for the pure _joy_ that enveloped him as Hogwarts finally came into view. 

Everyone around him gasped, even the purebloods who must have heard stories, or seen pictures, and he thought that he heard Hermione whispering, verbatim, all of the textbooks that she’d read in preparation for this very moment. He would have teased her about it if he hadn't read just as much or _more_ , and he said so just as the boats pulled up to the shore. Draco and Blaise admitted to the same.

Daphne snorted good naturedly. “ _Ravenclaws_ ,” she muttered. 

They made their way to the entrance, gawking at the front gates that towered over them, looming.

Harry squeaked, and Neville reached over, clasping his hands and squeezing. It did little to help with his nerves, but he felt warmer afterwards, like someone had given him a box of chocolates after a bad day. He squeezed back.

Hogwarts was as beautiful as he remembered it being; warm and welcoming and _magical_ in a way that he’d yet to find anyplace else, and as the first years shuffled up the long, winding flights of stairs, portraits whispering around them conspiratorially, he’d never felt more at home. 

Professor McGonagall, to the best of his knowledge, made the same speech as she did the first time around, her eyes flitting about the room of students, settling on him for a _touch_ longer than anyone else. 

Hermione had now moved on to reciting all of the _spells_ that she knew, and Harry rolled his eyes fondly. 

(Was it weird to think of her as cute?)

(Probably.) 

The ghosts talked to them again too, but (was he imagining this?) they seemed a _tich_ more tense than last time, ignoring his area of the room entirely. 

Any lingering suspicions he had about that were promptly banished out of his mind when _Ron fucking Weasley_ walked over. 

“Hey mate. I never caught up with you again after the train. I just realized that I never introduced himself. My name is Ron. Ron Weasley.” Ron stuck his hand out, and he almost cried at the irony of it all. 

He went to shake his hand, when he heard a rustling behind him, and a whispered ‘ _filthy blood traitor_.’ 

Harry whirled around to _stare_ , because _Draco_ , _how could he forget Draco_. 

“Excuse me?” Ron said indignantly. “How _dare_ you.” Harry, who knew Ron better than he knew himself saw the shit storm coming before anyone else did. “You’re one to talk, you _Death Eater scum_.” 

The room seemed to freeze. 

Within a few seconds, five wands belonging to Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, Harry, and surprisingly, _Neville_ were pointing at Ron, who backed away with his hands in the air. 

(He _saw_ it now. Such Gryffindors.)

Harry turned to look at Draco, who was trembling. “You have no right.” His voice was soft, and Harry didn’t think that he was imagining the slight shine in his eyes. “You have _no_ right.” 

( _Blood on the bathroom floor, washed away by water, but never washing off of his hands_.) 

Harry was the first to move, putting his wand away and wondering where it all went wrong. “Guys, let’s all calm down for a moment. Maybe put the wands down?” Slowly, the wands were put away, although the tension in the room only grew heavier; so heavy that he could cut it with a well placed _Diffindo_. “Weasley,” and how it _hurt_ to call him _Weasley_ , “you can’t go around accusing people of being Death Eaters. You can’t.” He looked at Neville, thinking about his parents in a hospital bed in Saint Mungos. Looked at Draco, seeing his father’s cold hands on his shoulders. He thought that he might understand; if only a little.

Ron glared. “It’s true. His father-” 

“ _He’s not his father_.” His voice was firm, and colder than it had ever been. “He’s not his father.” The statement dragged like molasses, practically a whisper. “And _you_.” He turned on Draco. “You had no right to call Weasley a blood traitor.” 

“Harry-” 

“My mother was a muggle-born, and she was the best witch Hogwarts has ever seen. Shut. Your. Mouth.” Draco looked appropriately contrite, and Harry exhaled sharply. 

Hermione chipped in then too. “I’m a muggle-born too, and you said that I was smart, didn’t you?” 

Ron laughed, but not cruelly. “It… _appears_ ,” he grimaced, “that we both have some personal biases to reconsider.” 

“It appears that we do.” The words rushed out of Draco’s mouth, and he looked almost horrified as he said them. “I… didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just what I’ve always heard, you know? Because mud, uh, muggle-borns were always _not smart_ to me, and to you, I think that maybe Malfoys were always, well.” 

“Prejudiced gits?” Daphne suppressed a laugh, and Pansy snorted.

“You’re not _technically_ wrong there, Weasel.” 

And just like that, the tension dissipated, and conversation resumed. 

Draco licked his lips, and considered for a moment, before putting his hand out again. “We could always reconsider our personal biases together?” It came out like a question, and Harry thought that this might be the first time that Draco has ever done something _on his own_ , without the weight of his parents’ expectations on his shoulders. 

He almost cried out when he realized that Draco was doing this for _him_ , him and ‘mud-blood’ Hermione, because this would _never_ have happened before, and _he_ was the deciding factor in this mess. _Him_.

(Draco would probably castrate him if he said it, but… _Hufflepuff_ , _bitches_.) 

Ron smiled. “Together.” 

* * *

Ron’s reaction when Harry introduced himself in turn was the best thing he’d ever seen. 

* * *

_Hermione_ ’ _s_ reaction when the _hat_ started _singing_ was better though. 

* * *

The first person to be sorted was ‘Hannah Abbot,’ who was sorted into Hufflepuff rather quickly, and as he remembered her ferocity on the battlefield, he thought that the Sorting Hat made a rather apt choice. 

Second, was ‘Susan Bones,’ and after that, ‘Terry Boot,’ and Harry found himself tuning out what the Sorting Hat was saying, and studying the Great Hall instead. 

The candles floating around the room were beautiful; but they didn’t drip. He resolved to ask Hermione about that later, and he turned his attention to the large table where the teachers sat. 

To his great surprise, Dumbledore looked vastly different than he did when Harry had ‘died,’ all in all appearing less like an old man on his last breath, and more like a bumbling grandfather figure who was constantly making bad jokes about lawns and World War II. 

Snape, as usual, looked sullen and greasy, but there was an air of youth to him, and he remembered that at this point, Snape was still in his _thirties_. He seemed to be staring around the hall, and looking everywhere _but_ the children in it. 

He looked much better than he did when he was dying, but that was to be expected, he supposed. 

(Harry didn’t look much better now compared to when _he_ was actually ‘dead,’ which was completely unfair.)

His gaze turned to Professor Flitwick and Quirrell, but his thoughts were abruptly cut off by a sharp pain in his scar. He flinched, putting his hands on his forehead, and wondering whether it had hurt this much his first go at it. Perhaps his pain tolerance had improved over time. Draco prodded him in concern, but Harry waved him off, smiling. _So he does care_. _How sweet_. 

He must have zoned out for longer than he’d thought, because the next name called was “Granger, Hermione!” 

He patted Hermione on the shoulder as she went up to the front, and watched in curiosity as the hat slipped onto her head, covering her eyes, going down to her nose. 

A minute ticked by.

Another.

It took longer than he’d expected, _much longer_ , but when the hat finally shouted “Gryffindor!” and the Gryffindor table cheered, he wondered whether his words had made a difference in how she perceived the other houses. 

For a second, it felt like he was choking on air. 

He had made _such a difference_ in the lives of his friends in a few _hours_. 

_Hours_. 

What would he do in _days_ , _weeks_ , _months_? Hell, what could he do in _years_?

Yes, he could change this world for the better.

He could change it for the worst too. And no one would ever know what they’d lost.

Every action has an equal opposite reaction. What were his actions causing? 

_What were his actions causing_? 

He was so out of his depth that it wasn’t even funny anymore, and he found his mood coasting from good, to the bone-crushing anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him. The room seemed to grow colder, and his hands were clenched together so tightly that they turned white. 

Neville must have noticed his growing horror, because he moved closer to him and nudged his shoulder. “You okay?” he mouthed out slowly. 

Harry nodded jerkily. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, Neville.” 

“You sure? I’m sure that the Sorting will be fine.” 

_He thought I was worried about the Sorting_. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’ll be fine. It’s just… people know who I am, and they expect me to be in Gryffindor, you know? And I don’t think that I’ll be in Gryffindor.” He realized with surprise that it was true. He really didn’t think that he _fit_ in Gryffindor the way that Neville did, or Ron did, or Hermione did, and he really _was_ nervous about how ‘they,’ (they being the students he sought approval from, and the teachers he respected) would perceive him. 

Neville smiled comfortingly. “Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll be good friends no matter which houses we end up in.” 

Harry found himself relaxing slightly, and warmth returned to the area as he fidgeted. “Thanks, Neville. You’re a really good friend.” 

Then, Neville was called up to the front, and the hat was on his head for all of three minutes before he was sorted into “Gryffindor,” as he and his friends clapped raucously, Neville walking down to sit beside Hermione. 

Harry decided that as long as his actions helped Neville _make_ something out of himself with _confidence_ , he was going to take all his changes in stride, because he’d taken him for granted, and he was never going to do that again.

The rest of the Sorting proceeded exactly as he thought it would, except for Draco’s, in which the hat hesitated for a _second_ longer before shouting “Slytherin,” which Harry thought was absolutely hilarious. 

“Potter, Harry.” 

There was a moment of silence, before the Hall burst into noise, everyone whispering something or another. Blaise and Ron nudged him forwards, and he stepped up to the hat like he was walking to his death. 

He would know. He had experience in that department. 

He scooched onto the chair, wincing when it squeaked, and took a deep breath in. 

The hat slid over his head.

“Mr. Potter, I’ve been waiting for you for some time-”

A pause.

“You have been here before.” 

He tried to think _towards_ the hat, if that made sense, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ve been here before.” 

“You don’t need to think _loudly_ for me to hear you, Harry.” 

Harry blushed. “Could we get on with the actual _sorting_ now?” 

“Fine, fine,” the hat said grumpily, and Harry got an actual _impression_ of grumpiness, which was very impressive. “You would do well in any of the houses, I think. You are very loyal, very brave, very ambitious, and you hunger for knowledge. But I reiterate my first thought; you would do very well in Slytherin. Changing the world requires a lot of ambition.”

“Really? I quite enjoyed being in Gryffindor.” 

“You did enjoy being in Gryffindor, but it wasn’t _right_ for you, was it.” A flare of anger burst out; because _he loved Gryffindor_ ; even though he’d literally _just_ admitted that he didn’t think that he’d end up in Gryffindor like _before_.

Harry could hear muttering around him now, and he wondered how much time had passed. “It… it was fine.”

“You thought that you had to be _reckless_ to be brave, dear. As many of that house do. It’s an error that I must correct.” 

“Not Gryffindor, then?”

“No, I would think not.” The hat sighed. “Not Ravenclaw either.” 

“Why? I’m smart enough!” 

“Yes, but you don’t like riddles, and you would probably hate getting into the Common Room.” 

“That… that is true. What about Luna?” 

The hat snorted. “Do you think that Luna will care if you’re in Ravenclaw or not?” Harry snorted. “Exactly. What about Hufflepuff?” 

“I like Hufflepuff. I’ll be able to talk to Cedric that way.” He remembered holding Cedric’s body in his hands, and the snake-like slits that were Voldemort’s eyes. “Maybe not.” 

The hat ‘nodded,’ though Harry couldn’t be sure how the hat did it, and ‘smiled,’ though Harry didn’t know how the hat did _that_ either. “Then it’s decided. I think you’ll like the dormitories.” 

“SLYTHERIN!” He took off the hat calmly, trying to hand it to Professor McGonagall, plopping the thing on the stool when she didn’t react. 

The whole room was silent for a moment, before Draco stood up, and started clapping like mad. So did Neville, and Hermione, and Ron, and the rest of Slytherin house, then all of Hufflepuff, then all of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, until the whole school was clapping. He sat down, and the next person came up. 

He caught a few hateful glances thrown his way for being sorted into the ‘evil’ house, and he wondered whether he’d been like that, once upon a time. He shivered.

Harry made sure to grin widely at Gryffindor, because he _hated_ house prejudices, and he sat down between Draco and Pansy, who were looking at him appraisingly. “Potter. Good on you for choosing the best house,” said one of the Prefects he didn’t know, as his new housemates clapped him on the back. 

Draco beamed at him after a moment of hesitation. “I’ll like having you here, Potter.” 

Harry smiled. “Me too, Dee.” 

Draco jerked backwards, as did most of the other people sitting there. “Did you just call me, _Dee_ ?” The amount of disdain he infused into the word was comical, and he burst out laughing; not caring about the eyes that followed his every movement. (He thought that one of the older girls at the table _cooed_ at him, and he fought the urge to glare at her. He was _seventeen_.) 

“We’re going to have a great year,” he said. 

* * *

After no small amount of hassle, he managed to convince the Gryffindors to clear out a space for some Slytherins; the majority willing to sit with their house rivals for the opportunity to sit with _Harry Potter_ ; so that he could sit with all of his friends. 

His Slytherin friends weren’t all too happy about it, (they were missing chances to ‘network,’ and to ‘suss out the area,’ which… okay) but they accepted the change pretty quickly once Seamus exploded his first cup of the night. 

(They hated sitting with the Gryffindors, Ron, Hermione, and Neville notwithstanding. But Harry had asked, so…)

They made jokes about the Third Floor, betting on how many students would inevitably make their way there over the school year, and several Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins came over to see what the all the fuss was about; many of them staying for the whole night after that. 

Eventually, half the school was crowded around the Gryffindor tables, and Harry silently congratulated himself for making progress on the glaring bias against Slytherin, and the horrible misconceptions about each house; especially Hufflepuff. 

Ron was very, _very_ pleased about having the attention of several older Slytherins and Hufflepuffs who were playing chess, (without a _board_ , the _nerds_ ) and getting beaten, and Blaise was even happier about the attention he garnered with his fashion advice; including a way to do up Harry’s hair in a way that made it look _neat_. 

He was an actual God with a capital G. 

He made a concentrated effort to talk to _everyone_ , especially the people he’d ignored the first time around, (he really needed a better way to refer to _before_ ) and before he knew it, he was chatting with some Ravenclaws about muggle literature and enjoying himself immensely.

He saw teachers looking over at them every once in a while, either looking incredulous, amused, or horrified, (that one was Snape, and Harry thought that that was just his default expression when looking at _children_ ) and he had never been more thankful that there wasn’t a rule prohibiting houses from sharing tables. It was only ever implicitly stated, which was strange if you asked him. Why would you imply that students in the school should be isolated from each other? But, he digressed. 

He gorged himself on the delicious food, promising to himself that he would visit the House Elves with Hermione soon, and soon, he was tired, happy, and full. He distantly remembered being led towards the dungeons where the Slytherin Common Room was, opening Hedwig’s cage, and falling into the _giant_ bed. 

The Sorting Hat was right.

He did like the dormitories. 

* * *

He woke up to a shrill shriek coming from the bed next to his. 

Harry jumped out of bed in an instant, grabbing his wand and his glasses from his bedside table, and pointing it at the noise. 

To his great surprise, it was Draco. 

Draco, who was screaming like Moaning Myrtle because there was something on his face? 

He walked over hesitantly, and grinned. 

There was a snake in Malfoy’s bed. 

His roommates were just waking up, most of them rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and protesting groggily that no one should be awake at this hour. 

“Get this _thing_ out of my bed!” he screeched. 

Harry giggled. “C’mon, get out of Draco’s bed, little snake.” He realized belatedly that he was speaking in Parseltongue, and he swore under his breath. He hadn't meant to do that. 

“You are a speaker?” said the snake, who was quickly winding around the bedsheets and towards Harry.

“Yes, I am. Would you mind getting off of the bed? My… friend, is very frightened of snakes.” Something that he would tease Draco about endlessly when he’d finished with this. 

“Fine. But let your friend know that he is very warm, and that he should not be afraid of snakes unless he keeps screaming like that. It’s grating.” The snake started to leave, when Harry stepped towards it, and grabbed it by the middle.

“Wait, how many snakes are in the castle?” 

“Many,” it hissed. “We don’t normally come into the rooms; the house elves chase us out, but I was hunting, and I was tired, and your friend was very warm.” 

“Could you… could you stay here? I could buy food for you, and you wouldn’t have to hunt. In return, I’d want you to answer some of my questions, and talk to the other snakes for me.” This would have been _so_ useful when the basilisk had come around before. 

“Okay. But you have to get me _mice_. Many mice.” Harry nodded. “My name is,” and a series of unpronounceable hisses came out of the snake. 

"What?"

The snake rolled their eyes, which Harry was very offended by.

"We usually use scent. Call me whatever you please, human child."

“How about uh… Muffin. You can be Muffin. My name is Harry.” 

“Okay, Harry. I will be back soon,” Muffin said, slithering away.

Draco looked up at him in terror. “You can speak _Parseltongue_?” 

Harry paused, calculating. 

“What’s that?” 

Draco’s mouth dropped open. 

“Merlin’s balls,” said Theo, and after a moment of silence, “Malfoy, you’re afraid of _snakes_?” 

There was no force in the world that could have stopped him from bursting into laughter at that.

* * *

The Slytherins stumbled down into the Great Hall for breakfast, receiving their schedules, and an open challenge to explore Hogwarts as much as they could over the weekend before classes started. Snape’s eyes lingered on him while he was eating, and he waved at him, pretending not to notice the perplexed look on his face. 

( _Nagini striking out at Severus’ face, poison sinking into his veins with every strike_. _Tears trickling down his cheeks as he rocked his mother back and forth in his arms_.) 

He swallowed. 

The Prefects introduced themselves, “Gemma Farley and Yvette Young.” Gemma peered around the room, glaring. “Yvette goes by they/them pronouns, they sleep in the male dormitories, and if I hear you misgendering them, I will personally see that you are expelled. Got it?” There was a faint murmur of agreement. “Cool. Now, we’re going to walk back up to the Common Room, have a little speech from your Head of House, Professor Snape, then you’ll have free rein.” 

Snape appeared at the head of the table, (Harry hadn’t noticed him moving) and nodded briskly, leading them down the stairs, and back towards a route he hadn’t seen before. 

They walked for several minutes before Snape stopped abruptly. “Watch.” He tapped the stone that was three stones away from the end of the stairs, and they watched in awe as a door appeared, sliding open. They all walked through, and it closed behind them with a click. Harry looked around, and almost gasped. They were right in front of the door to the Common Room. “You will only use this in emergency situations. Remember where it is.” 

They trailed after him like lost ducklings as he entered, and he whirled around dramatically, his cloak billowing behind him. 

There was absolutely _no way_ that wasn’t magic of some sort. 

Snape looked at all of them individually, and everyone fell so silent that it was almost unnatural. Harry took care not to meet his eyes. His Occlumency wasn’t _that_ bad, but it wasn’t _good_ either, and he wasn’t going to test it on _Snape_ , of all people. 

“Slytherin, is the house of _ambition_ , and of cunning.” His voice was barely higher than a whisper, and Harry leaned in to hear, drawn in by his words. “But the students in this school have, regrettably, begun to forget the difference between _ambition_ , self-preservation, and _evil_.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he _had_ , hadn’t he. He’d judged a whole house based on _one_ , not even Draco, but _Voldemort_ , and he’d cheered along with the rest of the school when they’d been sent down to the dungeons during the ‘final battle.’ 

“You will prove them wrong.” Snape smiled wryly, and Harry wondered if he’d ever seen him smile, _before_. “I will not tolerate laziness, nor bad marks. You will read ahead in all of your classes, and you _won_ ’ _t get caught_.” 

The first years nodded, many of them wearily. “Yes, Professor,” said a few of them. 

Snape nodded back, looking satisfied. “We present a united front to the rest of the school, and any disputes will be resolved _internally_. If you need anything, my door is always open. _Always._ ” 

(‘Always,’ said a different Severus Snape when faced with the knowledge that he was sending _Lily_ ’ _s son_ , _who he’d sworn to protect_ , to his death.) 

(‘Always,’ said a different Severus Snape because he would never love again after Lily. Never.) 

(‘Always,’ he’d said, because he’d never broken a promise before, and all he wanted was to be _forgiven_. ‘Please, don’t blame me for this, Lily.’) 

“Finally, there will be no petty fights about _blood_ , of all things.” He glared. “I don’t care what your actual opinions are, but you will keep them _quiet_. Nor will there be fights about family allegiances. The past is the past, and it will remain in the past.” 

Harry bit his lips, and nodded along with the rest of them. 

“Mr. Potter, come with me for a moment.” He frowned, and Draco looked at him in confusion, and he walked up to the front. 

Snape brought him through a series of hallways, and they walked into a small office that was probably next to Snape’s personal quarters. He sat down behind an ornate desk with stacks of parchment lining it, and gestured for Harry to sit too.

“Sir?” he inquired. He couldn’t think of any reason that Snape would want to talk to him in private right now. 

“You are aware that many of your classmates have parents that were formerly Death Eaters?” 

Oh. That was actually quite sweet of him-

“I will not tolerate any… bullying of those people simply because their parents made certain decisions.” Snape’s voice was hard and cold, missing the air of warmth that had accompanied his speech to the other Slytherins; resembling the tone he’d spoken to Harry with _before_.

Harry stiffened. 

He didn’t look as much like James as before. 

He’d ‘magic-ed’ out his hair, and tied it back so it didn’t look as messy.

He’d been perfectly respectable, he’d made friends with a bunch of the Slytherins, and he’d encouraged inter-house unity. 

So why the _fuck_ did he only see _James_ in _Harry_? 

“Sir,” and his tone was more indignant than he’d wanted it to be, “I would _never_. I would never, because I know that people aren’t their parents, and I’m neither of _my_ parents either.” If he was going to go all in with this, he might as well say... “I find it incredibly,” _hurtful_ , “demeaning, that you would assume that I would bully anyone, no matter their parentage, _especially_ given my history of having dead parents because of prejudice.” 

He set his shoulders, looked at Snape’s nose instead of his eyes, and prepared for the inevitable argument; the detentions, the screaming, the loss of points.

But it never came. 

Harry looked up tentatively, (to Snape’s forehead, now) and he almost laughed at the shocked expression on his face. 

The silence dragged for longer than was strictly comfortable, then Snape sat up abruptly, making Harry flinch, and stood. “Yes. That is exactly right. I apologize, Mr. Potter.” Harry’s jaw didn’t drop, but it was a near thing. “I will escort you back to the Common Room, and you can explore the area with your fellow students.” 

He nodded, baffled by this turn of events, and he let Snape lead him through the halls again to the Common Room where Draco, Blaise, Daphne, Pansy, and Theo were waiting for him. 

Snape swept off with a swoosh of his billowing cloak, and he was immediately bombarded with questions, “What did Professor Snape want?” and “Where did you want to go first?” and “My father told me where a bunch of the secret passages were!”

He laughed, but not as enthusiastically as before, and Theo looked at him in concern. “Something wrong, Potter?” 

“No, not at all.” A pause. “I’d like to go to all the classrooms first. I wouldn’t want to be late to a class because I didn't know where it was.” 

There was a series of groans, but that day, (after picking up Hermione, Ron, and Neville) they visited every single one of the classrooms on their schedule, and Harry pretended that that didn’t warm him from the inside out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked this, because this kind of update speed is absolutely not happening again ever. 
> 
> stay in school kids, and give me kudos and comments if you enjoyed.


	3. interludes and adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this chapter so much; i poured my soul into it even though it moves the plot along exactly 0 kms. deal with it. 
> 
> thank you so much for your wonderful kudos and comments. i live off of them. 
> 
> the next update should take less time than this one, but i make no promises. i have so much homework.

Against all odds, Harry was looking forward to school this time around.

While dumbing himself down to the level of an eleven year old child who hadn’t seen magic since he was _one_ would be tantamount to torture, he craved normalcy. 

Everything had changed, from his surroundings to the people that surrounded him, yet nothing had changed, from his surroundings to the people that surrounded him. 

(And wasn’t it jarring to see his friends; his partners in crime, his fellow horcrux hunters, the people that had weathered trial after trial, and hardship after hardship with, reduced to tiny, innocent and naive _babies_ whose biggest worry was whether their friends liked them and if they got good grades?)

(That was unfair. He _knew_ that was unfair, because as much as they looked like _his people_ but younger, they _weren’t_ , and it was unfair to expect them to be. Unfair, and selfish.)

(He wanted to be selfish.)

Ron frowned, tapping on Harry’s shoulder, his frown deeping significantly when Harry flinched violently, barely managing to keep hold of his things. 

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Conversation abruptly halted as everyone leaned in while exchanging concerned glances. 

Harry glared at Ron viciously, but Ron didn’t even appear fazed. “I’m fine.” 

“Really? Why have you been trying to tame your hair for the past few minutes? Why are your socks inside out? Why are you glaring at your textbooks like you want to eat them whole?”

Draco snickered, and Harry punched him in the shoulder. “I’m _fine_. I’m just pretty sure that Professor Snape doesn’t like me.” 

Ron nodded sceptically, but he dropped it. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Now, onto the more important question. How do you know your way around here already? I was with you when we toured the school, but I barely remember which way is up, and you’ve been avoiding all the trick steps while brooding sullenly with your head in the clouds!”  
  


“Hey, I’m not brooding!” he said indignantly as his friends laughed. “I’m just good at directions.” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Right. I told you yesterday to get me a book from the library about Wizarding customs that differ from our own, and you found it after _an hour_ of searching. Try again.” 

Harry groaned. “The library is complicated! The school isn’t.” 

“Harry. The book was neon pink,” said Draco, and Harry couldn’t stop himself from smiling. 

_Sarcastic dick._

Daphne and Pansy giggled to his left while Neville tried and failed to look unamused. 

“But, _really_ , Harry, what’s wrong?” Ron asked, shoulders set, eyes wide.

He couldn’t say:

That at first glance, being in Slytherin wasn’t all that different from being in Gryffindor; apart from the company, and the noise levels, because while Gryffindors couldn’t shut up to save their lives, apparently, Slytherins could. 

(If, during their little stint with the Polyjuice in second year, he’d managed to stay for more than thirty minutes without blowing his cover, he probably would have requested a resorting right then and there, screw the fact that, at the time, he’d thought that all Slytherins were massive arseholes.)

(Everyone needed a bit of peace and quiet from time to time, and that was really, really hard to get with Seamus constantly blowing things up, and Dean constantly encouraging Seamus to blow things up.)

(Maybe it was only them that were loud.)

(They were totally fucking.)

(He digressed.)

That at second glance, he could see the cunning and the intelligence shining behind the eyes of the older ones, just as he’d seen the righteous nobility and the relentless courage of doing the ‘right’ thing in the older Gryffindors. That he used to see in himself. 

That at third glance, he could see the steel in their gazes from _years_ of being told that they were _evil_ and _dark_ and everything undesirable, like an ant beneath a boot.

That the steel, so pure and strong, could create works of art, or reap destruction beyond imagining. 

He also couldn’t say:

That it felt like he was fighting to merge two versions of everyone together; one of the people he’d known, and one of the people he was getting to know. 

That it felt like he was fighting to merge three versions of Snape together; one of the mean, arrogant, cruel teacher that he hated, that had murdered Dumbledore while Harry watched, frozen under the Astronomy Tower, and another of the soft, bitter man who’d loved his mother, and finally, the one that existed right now who Harry had never known. 

Not yet. Not really.

What he _said_ was “I don’t like the attention.” 

He swallowed. “I forgot how much attention I got when I first came into the Wizarding world, and I don’t know, I thought that Hogwarts would be better, or different or something, but it isn’t, and people expect me to be like my mother, or like my father, and I don’t want to be either. And people say things about me in the hallways.” His voice took on a mocking lilt. “‘Did you see his scar? He’s _so cool_ ,’ or ‘He looks so… normal. I was going to ask for an autograph, but I don’t see the point anymore,’ or ‘He’s a _Slytherin_? The Slytherins are the _dark_ house! _Voldemort_ was in Slytherin!’ No one wants _me_ , and I hate it,” he finished rather lamely, and he was surprised to find that every word he’d said was true. 

He exhaled shakily.

Everyone was gawking at him now, and he flushed a deep red, breathing rapidly. 

Theo’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, and he scowled. “Bullshit.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Bull. Fucking. Shit.” Theo grabbed his shoulder, and Harry was too startled to respond. “You have _us_ , and guess what, idiot? We see you. We’re here for you. I’ve known you for three days, and I can already see that you’re wonderful in ways that most of us can’t even begin to fathom. I’m still confused as to why you ended up with us in Slytherin when you’re so sweet and wonderful and kind that by all rights, you should be in Gryffindor, but I’m not complaining if it puts you here with me.” 

Blaise tilted his head. “We want you. All of us. And everyone in Slytherin House will help you should you desire it, because as a house, we’re a _family_.”

Draco smiled. “Sort of literally, too. I mean, your Head of House acts _in loco parentis_.” He smirked. “You’re related to _Crabbe and Goyle_.” 

“That’s not at _all_ how _in loco parentis_ works, Draco,” said Hermione, but it was more out of principle than anything else, and Harry smiled. “And I’ve talked to Crabbe and Goyle, and they’re really nice guys. I don’t know why you lot pick on them,” she said with a huff, poking Draco with the back of her wand. 

“Gasp. How dare you, Granger. You have mortally wounded me,” Draco said in a deadpan, and Pansy choked on air as the rest of them giggled.

His friends pretended not to notice the tears slowly trickling down his cheeks as they walked into Snape’s classroom. 

* * *

Harry slid into a spot near the back of the classroom with Ron, who he was partnering with, and he watched as Snape made his way to the front, his robes sweeping behind him like the wings of a bat, calling out names for attendance as he did. 

“Harry Potter. Our new… _celebrity_.” 

Harry didn’t react apart from the slight clenching of his fists underneath the table, and a slow, controlled breath. 

For a single split second, he looked Snape right in the eyes.

But only for a second.

He’d never taken much notice of Snape’s eyes before.

  
  


_“You're just like your father. Lazy, arrogant.”_

_“Don't say a word against my father.”_

_“Weak!”_

_“I’m not weak!”_

  
  


How bitter did one have to be to compare an eleven year old child to that child’s father who was a bully in _adolescence_?

Why could he not _move on_? 

He was abruptly angry. Angry like he hadn’t been since he’d come back in a cupboard seven years in the past. 

“Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Snape snapped at him, his eyes piercing into Harry like daggers to the soul. 

His nostrils flared; the answer was on the tip of his tongue and he was going to _scream_ it at Snape's ugly, greasy face because he could. He was going to scream, and cry, and he was going to show up every single person in this bloody room because he wasn’t incompetent, or arrogant, or weak, and he was going to prove it. 

Then, the anger melted away as swiftly as it had arrived, because no matter how much he’d have liked to ignore it, he recognized Snape’s eyes.

Because he recognized loss and heartbreak and being so lonely that everything hurt so much that it was tempting to _stop_ , just so that the hurting would stop. And that while he’d chosen to live again, Snape hadn’t. Might not, even if he was given the option.

He could see Hermione’s hand waving frantically in the background as if something were pulling her by the wrist and wouldn’t let her go, and for a moment, he wondered if _he_ would have chosen to live back in that limbo in King’s Cross if he’d known that this was where he’d end up. 

The people he’d had before were dead and gone, because no matter how similar _these_ people were, they would never be the same, only cheap imitations of the real thing. 

“The Draught of Living Death, sir,” he said blandly. 

Snape’s eyebrows shot up, and his nose twitched, reminding Harry of a particularly irate rabbit. “So, you are not completely incompetent.” 

Harry didn’t react. 

“Where would you go if I told you to find me a bezoar, Mr. Potter?” 

“Right now, I would look in the potions stores, or a first aid kit. If you mean where they actually come from, I would search in the belly of a goat. The bezoar is also a cure to most poisons, although I’m not quite sure which they are.” 

Snape’s scowl only deepened. “What, then, is the difference between monkshood, and wolfsbane?” Harry paused, digging through the countless amounts of potions theory he knew but had discarded as useless over the years. 

Monkshood, and wolfsbane. They were the same thing, also known as aconite. 

He went to reply, but Snape started to speak. “Clearly, fame isn’t everything. ” Harry frowned, but didn’t respond. Snape sneered, his eyes darting around the room. “They are the same thing, also known as aconite, and its leaves are toxic.” He glowered. “Why aren’t you all writing this down?” 

“ _Shut up_!” Neville screeched. 

The whole room fell silent. 

Neville had stood up, kicking his chair aside and shooting Snape a glare that could cut dragon hide.

“You’re picking on Harry, and it’s despicable. You’re nothing but an irresponsible bully who probably enjoys making wonderful people like Harry feel like dirt.” 

Ron stood up too, walking over to where Neville was standing. “Yeah. It’s awful. Harry hasn’t even done anything yet, and I _know_ he’s been anxious for your class because he thought you didn’t like him. And he doesn’t like being famous. Not at all.” 

Theo spoke next, his voice soft and placating. “Professor, could we just get on with the lesson?” 

Snape’s shoulders straightened, a movement imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t watching for it. 

A pause.

“Ten points to Gryffindor, and five to Slytherin,” he muttered, and Neville beamed before flushing a deep crimson and falling back into his seat.

The class concluded without incident, and Harry breathed out a sigh of relief. 

(He didn’t notice the pain in Snape’s eyes marking him more effectively than Voldemort ever could, because _history didn't repeat itself, people repeated history,_ and Severus was doing it every day he acted like Harry’s father at his worst, and Severus’ father at his best.)

( _‘I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!’_ )

(' _I’m so sorry.’_ )

* * *

“ _Tempus_ ,” Harry whispered, groaning when he realized he was late. 

Personally, he didn’t care much for Herbology; his memories of gardening of any sort were all dark and depressing, and he still remembered the screeching of the Mandrakes along with the glazed eyes of _innocents_ as Harry choked on Gillyweed. 

_But_ … 

Neville loved Herbology; he practically breathed it, like nature had sunk beneath his veins and into his bloodstream, and he would never take Neville for granted. Never again.

This was their first class, and with the Hufflepuffs who had Sprout as a Head of House, and he was going to be _late_ because he’d insisted on staying behind to grab the last of the Treacle Tarts.

The Slytherins had most of their classes with the Gryfinndors and the Hufflepuffs, and while the Hufflepuffs were terrified of confrontation and they usually worked amicably together, (when you were told as an eleven year old that you were the ones that weren’t much of anything, and the only thing that was worthwhile about you was being nice, you started to mix up kindness with cotton spines and self-esteem issues) whoever decided on putting Slytherins and _Gryffindors_ together was either batty, suicidal, or a genius.

(Dumbledore was a sick, _sick_ man.) 

He hurried in just as the doors slid shut, and Sprout glowered good naturedly before sighing and grabbing his shoulder, steering him towards one of the tables with an empty seat, away from Draco and his other Slytherin friends. He didn't complain. (He wasn't _frightened_ of Hufflepuffs, why would you ever ask that? He just had a _healthy respect_ for them.)

He didn’t manage to stop his flinch at the sudden touch, but if Sprout noticed, she didn’t say a word about it, and she continued her lecture with no indication that his interruption had distracted her at all. 

He grabbed his notebook, and started taking notes along with the other two kids at his table, smiling at Draco who was across the room with the rest of the Slytherins, and he realized abruptly that he was the only member of the house that was with a non-Slytherin. 

He glowered. Isolation would do no one any favours, and if he was to defeat Voldemort, he’d need a wide range of support from all of the houses, and not just one. He wondered when he’d started thinking of making friends as networking like the wealthy Pureblood heirs he spent so much time with, but he paid it no mind. _As long as it kept them safe_. 

The lecture didn’t last for very long, and they quickly moved to the practical part of lessons, with him partnering up with his deskmates Susan Bones, niece of Amelia Bones, Hannah Abbot, avid member of Dumbledore’s Army and future Healer, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, wealthy heir to a large muggle company, which he was delighted to hear owned Grunnings, where Uncle Vernon worked.

He left the room with three more friends and a promise to study together sometime. 

(Was he using people like chess pieces in a grand game behind the guise of ‘the Greater Good?’ Was he like Voldemort? Like _Dumbledore_?)

(Susan Bones, niece of Amelia Bones, but mostly, lover of fish and baking. Hannah Abbot, avid member of the DA and future Healer, but mostly, the painter who left splashes of colour on her robes. Justin Finch-Fletchley, heir to a large muggle company who wore arrogance like a mask to conceal the animal loving potential barrister underneath. No, he was nothing like either of them. He was himself, and he was nothing more. Just Harry. It was a title he wore like a crown.)

(That is where his greatest ambition lay; he _yearned_ , yearned for life and identity and love, and that is what the Sorting Hat saw engraved in his mind, just as Snape did, mistaken as a large ego and a privileged life because of bias and willful ignorance.)

(He _wanted_.)

* * *

Harry stared at his cauldron, counting quietly under his breath before tossing his nettle in and stirring quickly counter-clockwise. 

Snape had been fairly civil to him ever since the first Potions class, and while he wouldn’t say that they had an amicable relationship, Harry respected him for the clear mastery he had of his subject despite his horrible teaching skills, and Snape respected him for not blowing anything up, and turning in Potions and essays that were magnificent for his age. 

At first during class, he’d tried to be as average as possible, just like last time, but he realized that he had a very skewed idea of what average consisted of, and after a couple of weeks, he just gave up, hoping that the teachers didn’t think he was a genius, because he _wasn’t_ , and all that would do was put more pressure on him to succeed. 

He just had more experience, even with the disadvantages that came with his current age and body. 

So, Harry stayed near the back of all the classes he took, and excelled at all of them. 

The teachers whispered about the Potter boy who wasn’t James, nor Lily, but spoke and moved and _breathed_ with their souls clinging to his, wearing the ghosts of their smiles. 

(His scar _burned_ , and the world tilted.) 

* * *

He woke up with screams echoing in his ears and green light flashing behind his eyes.

* * *

McGonagall smiled at him sometimes, with a sad look on her face, and Harry hated it with a passion.

She’d done the same demonstration as she had the last time around, except this time, Ron was gaping in awe instead of embarrassment, and Harry was remembering Sirius Black falling into the thin veil of mist that reminded him of spider webs, pinning him down and suffocating him.

He smiled. 

Said nothing.

* * *

  
  


Flitwick fell off his stack of books when he saw Harry’s name during roll call, and Harry was just pissed enough that when asked to demonstrate a Lumos, he almost blinded the classroom and had Draco seeing spots all the way to Herbology.

Instead of berating him as he should, Flitwick told him that he was just like his mother; a dedicated student always excelling at whatever she put her mind to.

Harry _screamed_ on the inside.

He smiled.

Said nothing.

Thanked him sincerely for the compliment.

* * *

He didn’t pull any death defying stunts to get on the Quidditch team; Neville and Malfoy were talking about Quidditch teams that they liked, and whether they’d be as good as their classmates on a broom, and Neville’s feet never left the ground before the whistle blew. 

He missed the feeling of wind in his hair with all of his problems blowing away in the summer breeze.

* * *

One night, he opened the Daily Prophet to check the financial column, (he’d sent a few letters to Gringotts about investments he could make, and it turned out that having future knowledge about which companies would succeed was very, _very_ useful) and there was a picture of _them_ on the front page. It was the Potter’s anniversary.

He knocked over his pumpkin juice and stormed out of the Great Hall without taking a single Treacle Tart.

His friends, (which now included some Hufflepuffs from Herbology) brought him Chocolate Frogs in the hallways between classes and delighted in the joy that crossed Harry’s face for a split second before it was stamped down with a vengeance. 

_They would never celebrate an anniversary again_. 

Snape looked at him in concern, and gave Slytherin ten points when Harry answered a question. 

He wondered how awful he must look to warrant concern from Snape of all people, then he felt bad because Snape might be the only one who _understood_. 

Understood that the publicity and the pictures and the press weren’t something to be proud of, but a constant reminder of the death of his parents. That ‘The Boy Who Lived’ was nothing more than a publicity stunt that dishonoured Lily’s sacrifice.

He smiled.

Said nothing. 

* * *

He almost had a panic attack when Quirrell looked him in the eye, and for a moment, all he could see was his face crumbling like flour in his hands and the smell of burning flesh.

* * *

“Sometimes, it feels a bit like I’m drifting,” he admitted under the full moon as stars shone above their heads and Draco named them all. “It feels so surreal. Time’s been moving, but it doesn’t feel like time. Not really.”

Draco reached over, grabbing his hand and squeezing. “We’re here.” 

Theo snorted, loudly and rudely, startling many of the other students who just wanted to finish their homework. “Don’t get all poetic on us, Harry,” and the eerie tension was broken and ripped apart like paper as they laughed and _laughed_ until the teacher deducted points; and Hermione didn’t even complain.

* * *

Harry grounded himself.

Breathed.

* * *

It was sunny today; the world outside was barely growing chilly and the students had started to wear gloves and mittens outside with charmed lamps and fires that glowed blue. 

He dug his nails into his palms and talked with as many people as he could. 

He was here. 

He was still breathing.

The chill of the autumn breeze on his face was comforting, like a caress from parents he’d never known, and the stark differences between the weather inside and outside soothed him. 

He was here.

He was still alive. 

Muffin and some of his friends came into his room often, and after the strange period of time where Draco wasn’t sure whether he loved the snakes, or was terrified of them, he’d firmly settled with ‘loved the snakes,’ and decided to spoil each and every one that showed their faces near him. 

“If I didn’t know better, Muffin, I’d say that you preferred Draco over me,” he hissed as Muffin stoutly ignored him for Draco’s head pats, and Muffin laughed, or did the closest approximation of a laugh that he could get to.

“I do prefer Draco over you.” The snake slithered off, but not before climbing all over Draco and snatching one of the dead mice that he seemed to carry around everywhere now, and Harry received the distinct impression that Muffin was _smirking_. 

He groaned. “You lot are all treasonous arses.” 

Draco only laughed, and his face was open and peaceful. Harry grinned. 

Blaise raised a perfectly styled eyebrow, and a few moments of silence, the entire Common Room started giggling. 

The expression on Snape’s face as he walked in (he was frightened that someone was being murdered with all the cackling he heard) was _comical_ , and the only bad moment of the day was the fact that he was unable to take any pictures of the moment. 

He slept peacefully that night.

* * *

He woke the next day, and it was Halloween. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you lot are all doing well. stay safe, happy, healthy, and love harry potter. he is a smol bean. 
> 
> be prepared for epic fights with trolls, bonding with friends, minnie minerva and snappy snape because ims loves thems very much. probably. next chapter might just be 10000 words of filler. i do not control the muse, the muse controls me. (i also do not control the homework, but the homework is completely irrelevant in the face of the muse.) 
> 
> i've been reading lately because why not, and i've discovered that i only read fanfiction, and now that i only read fanfiction, i can no longer read published stuff with new characters because my brain has refused. 
> 
> please leave kudos and comments, and come to the dark side. i'm there and i'm serving cinnamon buns. 
> 
> (on a separate note, i made cinnamon buns and forgot to add sugar to them, but i compensated with icing and they actually taste better than the cinnamon buns with sugar that i've made in the past.) 
> 
> finally, i have found the perfect name for harry. i know he already has a name. i'm giving him another name. it's yvette; if i ever decide to murder this universe and reincarnate him as someone else (don't worry i'd never do that) i would make his name yvette. it literally means death, rebirth, and second chances.
> 
> im so tired, i will delete this end note later, but right now, i want to ramble into the void.
> 
> have a nice day. happy holidays. i've decided that it's your collective birthday today, readers of my fic. happy birthday.


	4. troll in the dungeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day was already bad enough before the troll came into play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows dramatically*
> 
> Have you missed me?

Severus Snape woke up in the morning.

He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. 

It was Halloween, and the Lily-shaped hole in his chest where his heart used to be was aching more than usual. 

He got out of bed, like he always did. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that either.

He grimaced. 

Carefully didn’t think about the piercing green eyes that belonged to one Harry James Potter. That used to belong to Lily. 

Cursed under his breath. 

Potter had been… unexpected. 

First, it had been his looks. 

He’d expected a replica of James Potter, his childhood nemesis, and was instead faced with a tiny _slip_ of a boy with long hair that, despite its color, looked more like Lily’s hair than James’, especially when it was tied up. And _those eyes_. 

He digressed. 

Then, it had been-

Slytherin. 

Lily’s boy, in Slytherin. In _his_ house. 

(“Sir, I would _never_ . I would never, because I know that people aren’t their parents, and I’m neither of _my_ parents either. I find it incredibly demeaning that you would assume that I would bully anyone, no matter their parentage, _especially_ given my history of having dead parents because of prejudice.”)

There wasn’t much one could say to that. 

He’d expected arrogance. He’d expected the boy to saunter into his classroom with his chin high and his eyebrows raised in polite aristocratic disgust. He’d expected the boy to be spoiled, spoiled and disdainful, but what he received was a little boy. 

A quiet boy, who was clearly intelligent, though reticent. 

A kind boy, who associated with members of other houses and broke down every box Severus tried to put him in with ease. 

A boy who his classmates clearly adored, who his teachers clearly adored, and a boy who Severus was beginning to-

Like? 

He’d confronted Potter, (no, not _Potter_ , Potters were Gryffindors and pranksters with glasses and messy hair) Harry, (not Harry either, he didn’t have the right, not when he’d killed his parents, not when he couldn’t help but see Lily and James in everything he did)-

He confronted _the boy_ during class, expecting screams about injustice and fumbling hands reaching for unread textbooks, but what he’d received was something akin to hurt wafting through the air, painting his face in shades of sorrowful blue, and something akin to resignation. 

He’d walked into the Great Hall in a daze, watched at his colleagues gushed about James’ and Lily’s son, and how polite he was, and how smart he was, and how he seemed to have a book of all the castle’s secrets secreted in the corner of his mind, and for the first time since the boy had arrived, he _looked_ at him. 

He’d _looked_ at him, and he saw a little boy. 

A little boy who was small for his age, and didn’t much like being touched without warning. A little boy who was always tense, whose eyes darted around every room looking for the exits before he settled down, a little boy who looked at his classmates with something like pride when they got along, and a little boy who looked at Hogwarts like it was a haven.

A little boy who was a little _too_ good at de-escalating situations, who always knew the right things to say, and a little boy who always stayed at the back of the classroom and completed his assignments quickly, and moved to help others immediately, drawing others’ attention away from his own achievements. (A bit like Mr. Nott, now that he thought about it. He resolved to investigate that avenue later.) 

And Severus knew that Slytherins were always a little fucked up; he’d known when he’d accepted (when he was forced into) the position, because he’d been/is/will be a Slytherin until his dying day (which will surely come sooner/later than he’d hoped it would), and because Slytherins had always been the ones who weren’t; weren’t kind enough, weren’t brave enough, weren’t smart enough; the ones who left behind legacies of riches and chaos.

Or maybe that was something only he saw; he was used to (too used to) seeing monsters in children. (Men didn't become Gods, they became monsters, and their children became men.) 

And Severus remembered swearing one night when the moon was high and the winter chill hadn’t yet sunk into his bones, hadn’t yet frozen up inside his chest and stayed there, remembered swearing to protect and to shield, because that’s what he would have wanted, that’s what he’d needed, he needed, because who else was going to do it but him? Because the Sorting Hat sung about cunning and guile and means to an end, and all they heard was liars, deceivers, and not to be trusted.

Severus remembered swearing one night when the werewolves were running and a mark was burning on his forearm that he would not let a child go hungry again, would sooner die than let a child live without love, live without love like he did, because who else was going to save them? and he looked at the little boy sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, blissfully ignorant but never naive, _Potter_ , and he thought-

Harry.

Yes. 

That was _Harry_.

And he watched as that table in the Great Hall burst into noise, filled with righteous indignation and angry shouts. 

He watched as those children, (monsters, each and every one of them) screamed about money and family, as if that was all that mattered in the world. He watched as Minerva stepped in, and the shouting stopped. He watched the guilt flashing over the faces of most. Not all, but most. He watched Minnie assign detentions like Albus gave Lemon Drops, and he watched as the doors to the Great Hall swug open with a clang. 

He did not notice Theo Nott escaping to the quiet of the dormitories, but that was not important. 

What _was_ important, was that he did not notice _Harry_ slipping out to the bathrooms on that floor. 

“Troll! Troll in the dungeons!” A pause. “I thought you all should know.” 

Severus ran for the third floor. 

(Harry ran from the troll.) 

* * *

The first time around, Harry hadn’t known when they’d died. 

(He remembered being eleven, eyes wide, head empty, skinned knees and clothes covered in grass stains. He’d been so _naive_. Didn’t he know, back then, that nothing was ever simple?) 

His Slytherin classmates were quieter today, and he remembered with a start that many of them had lost family too, except it wasn’t because of the genocidal maniac _he_ hated, but rather the fault of the Aurors he’d once wanted to join. 

(Wasn’t it tiring, seeing the world in color? He remembered being eleven, eyes wide, head empty, the world painted in black and white, light and dark, good and bad. Didn’t he know, back then, that nothing was ever simple?) 

(He remembered being fourteen and _crying_ because Hermione had sent him a history book and _there were his parents, beautiful and young and filled with potential_ , and _there they went, six feet under on October 31st_.) 

The first time around, he hadn’t known when they’d died, but _now_ , he knew them in a way he hadn’t before; he knew the way his mother laughed, the way his father smirked, and the way that their bodies looked splayed out on the floor of what would have been his _home_ -

He didn’t like Halloween. 

He dragged himself out of bed, going to brush his teeth before swearing, grabbing his wand, and casting a silent Scourgify that he’d spent hours perfecting when they were on the run, and toothpaste was a valuable resource to be hoarded. 

He put on his glasses, and tried not to cry. 

He swallowed. 

Made his way to the Great Hall. 

The tables were sparse, and most of the students already present were disheveled and tired looking. He sat down at his regular table, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. 

Instead, he pulled out some of his homework and worked on finishing everything he’d put off last week, scribbling down last minute corrections and making sure that it was _perfect_. He didn’t think that he could stand it if anything went wrong now. Not today. 

One of the prefects looked over at him in concern, and he smiled back, pretending that it didn’t feel like a grimace. He looked down at his porridge, sticking his fork in before giving up on the meal entirely, and walking back to his Common Room. 

He realized too late that he was heading straight for the Gryffindor Common Rooms, and not the Slytherin ones, and he stopped in front of the Fat Lady with a short sharp exhale. 

His eyes stung. 

He blinked furiously, and he turned, because he had to be _anywhere, anywhere but here,_ before being cut off by the clearing of a throat, and a light tap on his left shoulder. 

He whipped around, and saw Neville peering at him in concern. “H-hey, Harry. What are you doing here?” He frowned. “Are you okay? You seem a bit off.” 

Harry closed his eyes, shaking Neville’s hand off. “I’m _fine_. Leave me alone.” 

He started to leave, but Neville grabbed the hem of his robes, pulling him back. “Like hell you are,” he said forcefully, and Harry was so surprised that he stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong?” He quirked his lips. “I mean, it is Halloween. Think of all the candy!” Neville beamed. “There’ll be _Treacle Tarts_ , Harry.” 

Harry snarled. “I’m not in the mood, Neville. Shove off.” 

Neville twitched, and Harry felt guilty immediately, cringing. “I’m sorry, Neville. I-I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just… not in the mood today.” 

Neville just _looked_ at him, and it felt like his soul was being bared for the world to see. Like his carefully crafted Occlumency barriers had fallen, and Neville was rooting around in his mind. 

Judging what he saw. 

“Is this ‘cuz of your parents?” 

Harry froze, and he almost stopped breathing. He stared at Neville, but found nothing in his expression that would indicate malice. His pudgy face was tilted slightly to the side, and his arms were crossed, wrinkling his robes. Neville’s expression softened, and he stepped closer. “My Grandma gets a bit like this sometimes. My-uh, my parents, they, they were tortured quite a bit. Went a little mad. She always wanted to be left alone. But I don’t think that _you_ need to be left alone.” He grabbed onto Harry’s sleeve again, but this time, he didn't let go, even when Harry tried to _rip_ his hands off. “You know, it’s alright if you miss them. I miss mine sometimes too.” It came out like a whisper, and Harry was horrified to feel stinging in his eyes. 

He wasn’t eleven, and it was _his_ fault that his parents were dead anyway. He didn’t have the _right_ to grieve and mourn, not on this day of celebration and joy.

He didn’t notice Neville moving closer until he was enveloped by warm arms that stretched around his waist, and by then, it was too late to move away. 

(He didn’t want to move away.)

He sunk into Neville’s arms, and he smiled. 

(He had such good friends.) 

* * *

Harry stared at the bathroom mirror, lost in thought. 

The anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort had done many things to many people, but the reception he’d been receiving had been overwhelmingly positive so far. The Great Hall he’d just exited had been full and bustling with cheer; they’d just finished a Charms lesson, and despite all the _happiness_ around him, he’d been feeling awful. (He was still feeling awful.) It had been his friend group’s turn to sit at the Gryffindor table, and he was regretting that decision immensely. 

He’d noticed the way that the teachers, (apart from Snape) gave them _tich_ less points today, he noticed the way that the cracks against Death Eaters grew a tich louder, and he wondered how _anyone_ could like Halloween. (He noticed more than one eye on him in the hallways, and he wished that he could hex someone.) 

Long story short, stress levels were already high.

“You were saying it wrong, Ronald!” he’d heard from the seat next to his, and he whipped around to stare at the argument he was certain would break out. He swallowed, hard, tearing through his memories to pinpoint when this had happened before. 

“You do it then, if you’re so smart!” Ron shouted, and Harry winced. 

Hermione glowered, then intoned, “Wingardium Leviosa,” making her goblet float up to the air with the movements of her wand.

Ron sneered, and Hermione looked at him with a self-satisfied grin that pulled at the corners of her lips.

For a moment, she’d looked unbearably pretty, not in a conventional way, but like the feeling you got when you looked at water just the right way, and it gleamed, fluorescent rainbows dancing across the surface. That was a glimpse of the Hermione she’d grown into; the one who realized that she had _worth_ completely separate from her grades and her bushy hair, and the one who’d fallen in love with Ronald Weasley.

Then, it was gone, melting away into the know-it-all who always had to be right, and delighted in shoving that fact into others’ faces.

Ronald Weasley, eleven year old boy who hadn’t been kicked in the arse with his utter disregard for the emotions of others yet, (and how someone so intelligent and perceptive could be so dense, Harry didn’t know) didn’t see the glee that flitted across Hermione’s face, and simply assumed that he was being shown up and would be discarded again, because he was _just another Weasley_.

Which was why Harry hadn’t been at all surprised when Ron growled at Hermione, and flicked his wand at her face, sending red sparks skittering across her hair and over her robes, crackling furiously. “Shove off! No wonder you haven’t got any friends, you’re _insufferable_!”

His side of the table abruptly grew silent, then, it erupted.

Tensions and patience had been wearing thin, and it seemed as if his friends had just been _waiting_ for an opportunity to strike, like snakes in the grass.

(He was so _tired._ )

Draco had stood up, and was brandishing his wand in Ron’s face, as were Daphne and Pansy, both of whom had cultivated a friendship with Hermione, and were teaching her the ins and outs of wizarding high-society. “I should have known that you were just like the rest of your little family, Weasel.” Harry grimaced.

Ron’s gaze turned cutting and fiery. “And _I_ should have known that _you_ were just like the rest of your stupid family, you slimy _snake_.”

By now, the entire table was staring, and the Slytherins on the other side of the room were starting to bristle. “Well, _we’re_ Hermione’s friends. You’re just a poor replica of your family’s worst faults,” Pansy sneered, obviously catching onto the fact that his family was a sore subject. “Literally _poor_ too.”

Now, even the Weasley twins had stopped their conversations, and were now focusing on their side of the table.

“Shut up! How does it feel, knowing that today is the day that the person your parents worshipped was defeated by the _one year old child_ who’s sitting next to you lot?” Theo flinched, putting his books down and strolling out of the hall, and some of the other first year Slytherins came over to glower.

“Blood traitor!” Someone had screamed, though Harry couldn’t tell who.

“Junior Death Eaters!” Someone else had retorted angrily, and the Great Hall burst into noise, everyone screaming at each other, each offended by grievances spouted by children, _his friends_ , who didn’t fully understand what they were saying.

He’d stormed out, then, because they were all being irrational and mean and _why couldn’t they see that?_

And now, he was standing in a bathroom and wallowing because his friends couldn’t get along when he _should_ have been thinking of his parents. 

He was being ungrateful.

His mother had sacrificed herself for him, as had his father, and he was thinking about an argument in the Great Hall. 

_Your parents would have wanted you to be happy_ , his inner Hermione said with a smile. 

He stamped those thoughts out, barricading them into the corners of his mind and trying to put up his Occlumency barriers, although his barriers weren’t so much real barriers as a thin wall of tissue paper that would keep others from glancing at his surface thoughts. 

He sighed, and splashed some water on his face, rubbing his eyes and slicking his hair back, watching as it popped up again with a vengeance. 

Then, he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Harry Potter! It’s Harry Potter! I’ve been looking for you for so long!” 

Harry flinched violently, whipping around and tearing his wand out of his pocket. 

A little girl who couldn’t be more than twelve was looking back at him. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue, and her hair was a mousy brown, tied up into a neat bun on top of her head. Her wand was in a holster at her side, and she was bouncing on her toes, staring at him with undisguised awe. 

“You’re in the wrong bathroom,” he said, his voice going high-pitched in shock. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m just such a big fan!” the girl squealed in delight. She took his hand in hers, and shook it up and down enthusiastically. “I’ve heard so many stories about you, and I’ve seen pictures of you as a baby!” 

Harry looked at her in mild horror, and he backed away slowly. He could feel the tinge of _rage_ building up in his body, but he squashed it down. _Not the time._

“Please, leave me alone.” His voice cracked, and he winced again.

The girl didn’t move, she only grinned, looking up at him creepily. “Just one autograph, please? Just one!” 

Harry took a deep breath in, closed his eyes, and ran for the door. 

He smelt shit. Heard the clomping of feet. Saw the giant wooden club that the troll was swinging around.

He turned back around, and slammed the bathroom door in the troll’s face. 

The troll was not amused. 

* * *

He pushed his way to the back of the bathroom, tugging the girl with him. He swore.

“What are you-”

“Shut up!” he whispered, putting his hand over her mouth. “There’s a mountain troll outside of this bathroom, and you are going to keep your mouth _shut_ before we get ourselves killed. Got it?”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she gasped. “A TROLL?” she shouted, and Harry jumped, before shoving her into a stall and putting his hand over her mouth. 

“What did you not get about _staying quiet_ you idiot?” he almost said, before his train of thought was interrupted by a giant clang, and the sound of a door being ripped off its hinges. The girl squeaked.

The troll was just as disgusting as he remembered it being; lumbering and smelly, and, most of all, _gigantic_. 

He suppressed the urge to squeak himself, and he pulled his wand out, preparing to fight, or to hide. 

The girl stepped out before Harry could stop her, and he tried to pull her back, but she was frozen in place, and _she wouldn’t fucking move_ , and _she was going to die_. 

Then, his heart beat out of his chest and he gasped, abandoning common sense and pushing the girl out of the way to move closer, until he was but a meter away from the mountain troll’s club.

Because he’d heard-

“Hey! Look at me, you stupid lug!” 

Ron.

* * *

Ron Weasley was wracked with guilt. 

Hermione had just been trying to help, and he’d called her those awful names, and he’d called other people awful names, and he’d been, in general, a massive dick. Of course, that didn’t excuse his friends from being massive dicks too, but still. He’d started it. 

It was just-

He’d never been special before. He’d never been important, and then, he’d met Harry. Harry and Hermione and Draco and Theo and Pansy and Daphne and Neville and-

And they were all special. They were all good at something, not arbitrarily good, but good like great, the great that made people make things of themselves. Hell, Harry was the _Boy Who Lived_ , but he wasn’t _just_ the Boy Who Lived. He was kind, and he was smart, and he was everything Ron had wanted to be when he was a kid.

But, never mind that, because they were all amazing. 

He wasn’t amazing.

“Troll! Troll in the dungeons!” 

_Harry._ Harry and Theo. They weren’t here. _They didn’t know about the troll._

Well. 

Someone would need to warn them about the troll. (He had _friends_ now, friends that were his, and his alone, and he wasn’t letting them go without a fight.)

Then, maybe, just maybe, he could be special too. 

He was a Gryffindor.

(Fred and George _did_ say that he’d have to fight a troll to get Sorted.) 

* * *

Harry watched in mute horror as the troll lumbered towards Ron.

One step.

Two steps. 

_Crunch_.

* * *

A scream.

* * *

Harry raised his wand. 

He could see teachers rushing down the hallway, led by McGonagall with his friends at her heels. 

The troll turned on Ron, going to bludgeon its club into his chest. 

It raised its club.

“Protego," he said.

The club bounced. 

He looked up at the troll. Down at the limp body at its feet, blood dripping across the stone floors. 

He thought of _Avada Kedavra_.

He said, “Reducto.” 

The world went white. 

* * *

(A cloaked figure with a scythe had been standing next to Ron.)

( _Death_.) 

(“Not on my watch.”)

(Harry _pulled_.)

(The figure smiled. “Hello, Harry. I’ve been waiting for you.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... That didn't go how I expected it to. Turns out, Death was rather displeased that they were being left out of the story until the end of 'Book One,' and Death always gets what they want. (Death likes Severus Snape very much. In both senses of the word.) On the bright side, I'm finally writing again? (Hopefully this chapter makes a certain amount of sense? I wrote half of it while tired out of my mind, and I haven't proof read it yet...)
> 
> I love you all. Stay safe. 
> 
> Snape: C h i l d. It looks gross, I don't want to touch it. 
> 
> Snape: I don't like children at all, they're weird and they cry a lot.
> 
> Snape: 
> 
> Snape: M us t ad o pt 
> 
> Harry: ?????????????
> 
> Minerva: *cackles evilly*


	5. master of what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this'll be a trip, lads.

Everything was white. 

_He thought of the piercing white that came from freshly fallen snow, the soft light that adorned the walls of Shell Cottage, and the yellow, artificial light that shone from the ceiling in the Hospital Wing._

Everything was white but the figure, standing at the corner of his mind and poking at his subconscious in a way that not even Voldemort had managed during his disastrous attempt at possession in his fifth year. 

His hackles rose, and he was backing away and assuming a more combat-ready position before he realized that he was moving. 

“What the hell do you mean, ‘you’ve been waiting for me,’” he said petulantly with a whine tinging his words, a reaction he thought he had a right to given all the crazy shit that had been happening to him for as long as he could remember. “Do I know you, and am I dead?” 

The second he said it, the implications of his words came crashing down on him. Was he dead? 

Believe it or not, Harry was _enjoying_ his second chance at life - a life where he had to be nothing but Harry; just Harry, and _just Harry_ didn’t have to worry about Dark Lords and plots from murderous madmen, just Harry worried about his friends and his grades and what his teachers thought of him. 

But that didn’t sound quite right, did it? 

Something was wrong with that statement, and he couldn’t figure out what; something he knew, he _knew_ , he really did, but couldn’t bring to mind. It was frustrating, to say the least, but it was also concerning, and Harry suppressed a shiver. 

(Death knew. Harry was never meant to be just Harry. That was a title he could never claim.)

(Just Harry might have been able to do the things Harry James Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Conquered, Death’s Master, wanted so desperately. But, whether a gift from the Fates, or a curse from Destiny, Harry Potter was never meant to be just Harry.)

“No, Harry, you’re not dead. I don’t think you ever were. And you certainly won’t be any time soon.”

Harry’s eyes widened. 

_Death_ smiled back. 

Harry blinked once. Twice. Exhaled. 

Then, he _laughed_. 

* * *

When his mother told him one day, “ _Tesoro_ , why don’t you go to Hogwarts this year? I know you’ve been looking forward to spending more time in Italy, but it would be wonderful for international relations,” Blaise Zabini knew two things. 

First of all, he was going to Hogwarts, arguing was so pointless as to be redundant, and he should just suck it up and get his bags. 

Second of all, he was going to _hate_ Britain. 

Now, as he looked around him, he wasn’t so sure about those two facts anymore, and the reason for that was one Harry Fucking Potter. 

Harry Potter, who not only had been Sorted into Slytherin of all places but Harry Potter who had practically everyone in their year wrapped around his little finger. 

(But was that really a surprise? The Slytherins knew just as well as him that Harry-no, _Potter_ , was a force to look out for; and one of the only people who could get their respective families out of the grave they’d dug for themselves during the war.)

(And if he didn’t… well. The Boy Who Lived would make for a good bargaining chip.) 

( _Family came first, regardless of cost._ )

He’d known the likes of Malfoy and Greengrass and Nott and Parkinson for years and years now, (come on, you couldn’t have expected his mother to stay _out_ of something as entertaining as a new Dark Lord; the British didn’t know what a _war_ was if they were cringing at _this_ ) and he hadn’t been surprised when Malfoy had latched onto him straightaway like the little leech he was, the prick. 

Calling the Mudbloods _Muggleborn_ was typical behaviour too. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy could do, it was schmoozing, and to endear someone else to you, some compromise was necessary, something Draco’s father must have taught him. 

Then, there was Greengrass; an infamously neutral family, probably the only family to remain truly neutral in all of Britain because of their vast smuggling- ahem, he meant _trading_ network. Which, _okay_ , that was _fine_ , maybe her family had probably told her to befriend the Golden Boy if all the other Junior Death Eaters were doing it too. 

And Nott, well. 

It was Nott. 

Nott did whatever the hell he wanted. (Because nothing terrified Nott anymore.)

And, hell, who knew, maybe he’d gotten attached to the little nuisance Potter; it wasn’t like Theo-no, _Nott,_ had any other friends anyways. (And Nott didn’t have any other family to _put first_.)

One of these alone would have been fine. 

Unusual, but fine. 

But _all of them_? With _Pansy Parkinson of all people_? Willingly _talking_ and _laughing_ with _The Boy Who Fucking Lived_?

No, something wasn’t right here. 

(He staunchly ignored the fact that he was also willingly talking and laughing with The Boy Who Fucking Lived.)

He did not understand, which was a pain, because Blaise Fucking Zabini did not simply _misunderstand_ things, not when it was about _his, and his own_ . (‘Look out for you and yours, bambino.’) He did not understand, and he would not understand for some time. (Slytherins were slow to trust, very slow, yet it only took Harry Potter _weeks_ to get the trust of most of the Slytherin first years.) 

(Slytherins were slow to trust, yes, but when you received a Slytherins’ trust, you better bet that Slytherin isn’t going to let you go for anything short of an outright betrayal. Not that someone would betray a Slytherin without that Slytherin expecting it and making contingencies until the betrayal was not only expected but beneficial to their plans.)

(A Blaise from a different timeline might count himself as an exception when in truth, that exception was one Severus Snape; Tom Riddle was cunning and genius and _insane_ , as most geniuses are or could be, but he’d never once suspected that Severus wasn’t anything but loyal.) 

Blaise was crying in the dorm room with the curtains drawn and silencing charms they weren’t supposed to learn until sixth year hanging over his bed. 

Silencing charms that he’d perfected over the course of his admittedly short lifetime. Charms that were impervious to all. 

Naturally, Harry Potter was the exception. He was always the exception. 

“Blaise? What’s wrong?” He could do nothing but look up at the Golden Boy, his eyes wet and puffy and unfitting of someone of his station, Potter’s eyes as green and piercing and weary as they always were. “Oh, Blaise.” Warm arms enveloped him in a hug, rocked him back and forth, and Blaise, in hesitant tones detailed the murder of his third stepfather. 

A murder he’d assisted in. 

Instead of recoiling, instead of reporting him to the Headmaster, or any number of things he could do with the damning confession Blaise had just handed to The Boy Who Lived on a silver platter, (he was an idiot, and idiot, he would bring shame to the family name, whatwaswrongwithhimwhywouldhesaysomethinganythingwhy) he’d simply said, “Do you need help?” and Blaise had said no, and that was that. 

The next morning, there was a nightlight by his bed, a mug of hot chocolate filled with peppermint, (his favourite, how had he known?) and he wasn’t so confused anymore. 

He too would follow Harry into battle. 

And he knew that his mother wasn’t the best role model, and he knew that the constant death and destruction around him had made for a devastating childhood, and he knew that he was clinging to the first sign of unconditional support that he could find, but _he didn’t care anymore_ . He didn’t care. (In a different lifetime, the first time he’d received unconditional support, it had been Voldemort doing the supporting; and after a while, the unconditional support became conditional, but _he hadn’t cared anymore_ because someone was finally proud of him.) 

(That support might have come from Snape, but there were always some who slipped through the cracks. Always. Snape tried anyway, as did everyone else. What was humanity for, but to try?) 

(Blaise tilted his head. “We want you. All of us. And everyone in Slytherin House will help you should you desire it, because as a house, we’re a family.”)

* * *

When Harry had recovered from his laughing fit, Death was looking rather annoyed, and Harry was wiping tears of mirth away from his eyes. 

“Are you done?” 

Harry snorted. “Yes. Yes, I’m done, _Death_.” 

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he thought he heard Death grumble, and he took a second to ponder how _surreal_ this entire situation was, and how weird his life was if he could just accept this without hesitation. “You are the Master of Death, which you’ve probably figured out already-”

“But why?” he interrupted, nose twitching. “I can’t be the only one who’s gotten their hands on all of the Hallows.” 

Death frowned, displeased. “You are the only one who never wanted power, Harry,” Harry went to object, because _yes he wanted power, everyone wanted power and he was no exception_ , but Death continued, “you just wanted _peace_ , and Death, _I_ , can give you peace.” 

There was a pause; one filled with thoughtful silence that neither tried to fill for a long while. 

“What even is the Master of Death?”

Death smiled wryly, cloak twisting and curling in the non-existent breeze, and he wondered whether this was where Snape had gotten his cloak billowing skills from. 

“Death cannot collect their own soul. When it is time for the end to come - because everything goes into the dark eventually - we will walk into Death as equals, and we will have peace at last. And it will be glorious.” 

Death’s eyes _gleamed_. “You would find peace in Death, so you will never find Death. Not until it is ordained.” 

* * *

Draco Malfoy was excited for Hogwarts. 

_Excited_ seemed almost a paltry term compared to the buzzing beneath his skin that felt like electricity about to roar up and consume him, and he doubted that words could ever describe the wonder he’d felt when he’d first laid eyes on the castle. 

Also, _he’d met Harry Potter, and Harry Potter was his friend_. He could almost see the approving faces on his mother and father’s faces when he’d told them about the new connections he was fostering with the Slytherin Boy Who Lived, and for the first time in a long while, his father had cleared a space on his schedule and his family had spent a day out together. Just them. 

Not because he’d made friends with The Boy Who Lived, but because he’d made a friend.

It was nice. 

And associating with Mudbloods to keep a friendship that, for once, hadn’t been organized by his family? It was completely and utterly worthwhile. 

(Draco Malfoy had a wonderful childhood filled with love and laughter and joy, because his parents truly loved him, and they truly loved each other. His childhood was also lonely; what were friendships with ulterior motives?)

(The war took its toll on everyone, even the Malfoys. Not everyone had Dumbledore behind them to shield them from the weight of their mistakes.)  
  


(Severus Snape had been incredibly privileged, in some ways, even though that privilege led to nowhere but a cold and lonely death in a cold and lonely shack, his mind clouded with the realization that _he could finally rest now_ , but also, _he was alone, and that was no one’s fault but his_.) 

And then it turned out that maybe the Mudbloods were more intelligent than he was taught they were; because Granger beat him in every single test and exam they had, and he’d been tutored since he was old enough to walk. And he was a _pureblood,_ a good pureblood. Then, he asked around the school, talked to the teachers and the half-breed Hagrid, and after some political maneuvering that he was _still_ proud of, thank you very much, he found the current class listings, which among them were Mudblood, and which were pureblooded. 

_There was no correlation_ . _None at all_ , which made no sense at all, especially considering that most pureblood families were rich and could afford multitudes of tutors for their children, while the Mudbloods had dirt for blood, not literally, but _as good as_ , because the blood of muggles and creatures was disgusting and dirty and _therewasnocorrelation,_ The Dark Lord was _wrong_.

His father-

His father was _wrong_. 

He would fix this. He was the Heir. He was the Heir to his House, and he would bring it into glory someday. 

_Dear Father,_

_This is your son writing. I have recently come across some data that may interest you, not only as a member of the Board of Governors, but also in your position as Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy…_

* * *

“Then, why all of this? Why the time travel, why the reincarnation, _why_?” his voice cracked, but Harry’s gaze didn’t falter. He had a will of steel, and steel doesn’t bend to blunt force- no. Steel is only susceptible to the slow, subtle manipulations of time and circumstance, and those times and circumstances are becoming few. Harry’s will won't, and will never bend to Death. He has looked it in the eyes too many times for it to do any more than amuse him. 

Death’s eyes fluttered closed, going half-lidded, and their voice came out as a breathy rasp. “You’re the only one, you know. That looked for the Hallows with pure intentions; that had the strength, the _gall_ to hold Death in your hands and let it slip through your fingers onto the forest floor.” Death moved closer, their footsteps echoing eerily throughout the chamber. They leaned in and reached out, their bony _cold_ hands grasping his chin and tracing over the edges of his soft features not yet hardened by age and war. 

“I find myself liking you, Harry Potter.”

  
  


(What Death didn’t say was this; “I like you because you walked with me like an old friend. I like you because instead of rejecting the people who bullied and tormented you for so long, you felt _bad_ because you didn’t see that they had more sides to them than they showed you previously. And that’s one of your faults too; there are people you probably shouldn’t forgive and forget with, but you do, and that changes lives, Harry. That changes lives. _I should know_.”)

(What Death didn’t say was this; “I am the last thing people see. I am the first that they see. I am everything, and I am nothing, and I wanted to give that to you. Because while Death is the impartial judge, jury, executioner, the Master of Death must be eternally forgiving. They must look at the truth of the human race, in all its flaws and horrors, and they must see only the _beauty_ in life. _There is no Death without Life._ )

(What Death didn’t say was this; “Death’s Master must be Life in all of the ways that matter. And _you_ are Life in all of the ways that matter. All you need to do is learn how to _live_.”)

  
  


The sentence sent shivers down Harry’s spine; rattled in his skull and crawled through his skin like maggots; parasites that dug their way in and _stayed there_. Death’s favour was not something you wanted; it was something you ran from with all your might because while Death came to all in the end, it did not touch everyone equally. 

(The last to touch Death and live was Lord Voldemort. Was that to be Harry’s fate?)

(No, it wasn’t. But Harry didn't know that. He wouldn’t know that for some time still.)

“I want you to live before you die, Harry Potter.” 

* * *

Hermione Jean Granger had been waiting for _something_ to happen for her entire life.

She’d always been different from the rest; not like she thought that she was _better_ than anyone, it was simply that she was different, and she thought that something would happen one day, and she wouldn’t be different anymore. 

She had no idea how correct that conclusion would end up being.

She was now sitting in the Great Hall, filled with people who were different, just like her, and to top it all off, she was friends with a celebrity who wasn’t arrogant or rude, but just like her. It made her feel like she could do important things someday, if the boy who sat next to her and smiled and _laughed_ like that was famous and important, then surely she could too. She would make a difference, just like she’d been different for her entire life. 

Then, she was running down a hallway with her favourite teacher and her friends, (and she had _friends_ now, her parents would be so proud) chasing after her friend (who was a bit mean sometimes, but it was fine, he meant well and she had many friends either way, so she knew what he was saying wasn’t true) who was chasing after her _other_ friend who was in the bathroom _maybe_ with a mountain troll. 

Because that was apparently a thing now. 

And then she saw a giant hand reaching out with a giant club, heading towards the bathroom and _they weren’t going to make it_ , but then, “Hey! Look at me, you stupid lug!” 

_Ron_.

He threw himself in front of that little girl who was standing frozen in the doorway of the Men’s bathroom, (the Men’s bathroom?) and Hermione could do _nothing_. 

She could do _nothing_. 

She could do nothing as Ron Weasley was struck down by the club. She could do nothing as blood spattered over the once pristine floors of Hogwarts. She could do nothing as Ron screamed, clutching his head.

Then, Harry came, like an avenging angel. 

* * *

“Goodbye,” said Death, and Harry opened his eyes.

* * *

Harry’s arms were heavy, and it felt like he’d just gone several rounds with a Mountain Troll.

_(Ha. Good one.)_

He looked around him, staring at the faces that surrounded them. 

The girl, _(Oh, that’s an interesting soul_ you _have, girly. And an interesting history.)_ was standing in the hallway shivering with her arms around her waist, crouched on the floor in shock. The students, (students?) who’d apparently heard the commotion and come over all looked to be watching him in something akin to-

Awe? 

No, that wasn’t right- _shouldn’t_ be right. 

He looked forwards and saw the dead Mountain Troll, impaled by hundreds of tiny shards of concrete brought down from the ceiling by his rather, uh, _passionate,_ Reducto, and it looked as if he’d shielded the area around the troll, keeping the pieces from hitting any innocent bystanders. 

The shield was still up, so he waved his wand slightly sheepishly, and took it down, flinching back at the godawful smell that filled the hallway and crawled its way into his sinuses. 

He looked around him again, at the mindless gawking of the masses, and at the sprawled figure on the floor clutching his head of bright red hair, and he snapped, “Are you going to do anything about the injured _child_ on the floor here? Or am I going to have to do that too? Like I just dealt with the _Mountain Troll_ that somehow made its way _into the school_?” 

The hallway burst into motion, and Harry sunk to the floor in a mild case of sensory overload. 

“A first-year student just brought down a troll, what the hell?” “Is anyone else injured?” “What’s wrong with this school? There was a troll in the bathrooms?” 

_(Come on, dearie, calm yourself. I only have a tiny window here because you’re the Master of Death, and someone came so close to dying right next to you. I'll have to leave soon, please don't freak out.)_

‘Ron _almost died_?’ he practically screeched mentally. 

( _Oh. I probably shouldn’t have said that.)_

It was so _notrightbadstrangeodd_ how Hagrid-like Death sounded in that moment, that Harry almost laughed.

He didn't laugh. Instead, Harry started to hyperventilate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! 
> 
> stay safe everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is @theragingpan
> 
> please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed. updates may be sporadic, or i might finish this story within a week. we shall see. 
> 
> this mess was inspired by 'Harry Potter and the Greatest Show,' by 'shadowscribe,' so go check them out. they're really good.


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